Standard 


Classic* 


Wffl  CARKLE'S  ESSAY 


BURNS 


UC-NRLF 


GIFT   OF 
Mrs,   A.   E.    WIshon 


ROBERT  BURNS 

After  the  painting  by  Alexander  Nasmyth 


REPRESENTATIVE 
POEMS  OF  ROBERT  BURNS 

WITH 

CARLYLE'S  ESSAY  ON 
BURNS 


EDITED 
WITH  INTRODUCTIONS,  NOTES,  AND  VOCABULARY 

BY 
CHARLES   LANE   HANSON 

INSTRUCTOR  IN  ENGLISH  IN  THE  MECHANIC  ARTS 
HIGH  SCHOOL,  BOSTON 


GINN  &  COMPANY 

BOSTON  .  NEW  YORK  .   CHICAGO  •  LONDON 


COPYRIGHT,  1897 
BY  CHARLES   L.  HANSON 


ALL    RIGHTS   RESERVKD 
7'4-S 


TEfte  fltftenattttn 

GINN  &  COMPANY  -  PRc- 
PRIETORS  •  BOSTON  -  U.S.A. 


TO 

MY  BURNS  SECTION 

OF  THE  CLASS  OF   18Q8 
WORCESTER   ENGLISH   HIGH   SCHOOL 

APPRECIATIVE,  SYMPATHETIC 
EAGER  TO  LEARN 


M564400 


THE  memory  of  Burns,  —  every  man's,  every  boy's 

and  girl's  head  carries  snatches  of  his  songs,  and  they 
say  them  by  heart,  and,  what  is  strangest  of  all,  never 
learned  them  from  a  book,  but  from  mouth  to  mouth. 
The  wind  whispers  them,  the  birds  whistle  them,  the 
corn,  barley,  and  bulrushes  hoarsely  rustle  them,  nay, 
the  music  boxes  at  Geneva  are  framed  and  toothed 
to  play  them ;  the  hand  organs  of  the  Savoyards  in 
all  cities  repeat  them,  and  the  chimes  of  bells  ring 
them  in  the  spires.  They  are  the  property  and  the 
solace  of  mankind. 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 


CONTENTS. 


REPRESENTATIVE    POEMS. 

PAGE 

THE  MISSION  OF  THE  BOOK xi 

REPRESENTATIVE  POEMS  OF  BURNS i 

1781.  SONG,  —  MARY  MORISON 2 

A  PRAYER  IN  THE  PROSPECT  OF  DEATH         .        .  3 

1782.  THE  DEATH  AND  DYING  WORDS  OF  POOR  MAILIE  .  5 
POOR  MAILIE'S  ELEGY 7 

1783.  SONG,  —  GREEN  GROW  THE  RASHES   ....  9 

1784.  MAN  WAS  MADE  TO  MOURN 10 

1785.  SONG, —  RANTIN  ROVIN  ROBIN 14 

To  A  MOUSE 15 

THE  COTTER'S  SATURDAY  NIGHT        .        .        .        .18 

1786.  THE  AULD    FARMER'S  NEW-YEAR  MORNING  SALU- 

TATION TO  HIS  AULD  MARE,  MAGGIE  .  .  25 

THE  TWA  DOGS 30 

ADDRESS  TO  THE  UNCO  GUID,  OR  THE  RIGIDLY 

RIGHTEOUS 40 

To  A  LOUSE 43 

To  A  MOUNTAIN  DAISY 45 

A  BARD'S  EPITAPH 47 

LINES  ON  AN  INTERVIEW  WITH  LORD  DAER  .  49 

A  WINTER  NIGHT 51 

'  1787.  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  DEVON 54 

M'PHERSON'S  FAREWELL 55 

1788.     OF   A'   THE    AlRTS   THE    WlND   CAN    BLAW           .           .  57 

AULD  LANG  SYNE 58 


X  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

1789.  JOHN  ANDERSON  MY  Jo 59 

WILLIE  BREWED  A  PECK  o'  MAUT     .        .        .        .60 
To  MARY  IN  HEAVEN 61 

1790.  TAM  o'  SHANTER 63 

1791.  BONIE  DOON 71 

1791  (?).    FLOW  GENTLY,  SWEET  AFTON       .        .        .        .72 

AE  FOND  Kiss 74 

1792.  BONIE  LESLEY 75 

HIGHLAND  MARY 76 

DUNCAN  GRAY 78 

1793.  SCOTS  WHA  HAE 80 

A  RED,  RED  ROSE .  81 

1795.  A  MAN  's  A  MAN  FOR  A'  THAT      .        .  82 

1796.  O,  WERT  THOU  IN  THE  CAULD  BLAST       .        .        .84 

PRONUNCIATION 87 

INDEX  OF  TITLES  AND  FIRST  LINES 89 


ESSAY   ON   BURNS. 

OUTLINE  OF  THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS i 

OUTLINE  OF  THE  LIFE  OF  CARLYLE vii 

BURNS  AND  CARLYLE xi 

ESSAY  ON  BURNS i 

NOTES  ON  THE  ESSAY 71 

CARLYLE'S  SUMMARY  OF  THE  ESSAY 80 

REFERENCE  BOOKS 82 


THE    MISSION    OF   THE    BOOK.- 


As  the  poetry  of  Burns  is  his  best  biography,  it  has  seemed 
only  fair,  in  preparing  the  second  edition  of  Carlyle's  Essay, 
to  introduce  representative  poems.  In  connection  with  the 
chronological  arrangement,  brief  introductions  seem  neces- 
sary, and  it  is  hoped  that  the  few  comments  will  stimulate 
thought  and  encourage  intelligent  criticism.  In  order  that 
the  poems  may  seem  less  formidable  to  those  who  dread  the 
Scotch  dialect,  the  vocabulary  appears  in  the  footnotes. 
After  one  has  read  the  poems  the  short  account  of  Burns's 
life  may  be  helpful,  and  the  reading  of  the  poet  and  of  his 
life  will  enable  one  to  appreciate  and  enjoy  Carlyle. 

Phillips  Brooks,  in  speaking  of  a  biography,  once  said  to 
the  Phillips  Exeter  boys,  "  Your  reading  will  be  a  live  thing 
if  you  can  feel  the  presence  of  your  two  companions,  and 
make  them,  as  it  were,  feel  yours."  Carlyle  has  introduced 
us  to  Burns  so  happily  that  there  is  no  excuse  for  our  not 
following  this  and  another  suggestion  given  in  the  same  lec- 
ture :  "  Never  lay  the  biography  down  until  the  man  is  a 
living,  breathing,  acting  person.  Then  you  may  close  and 
lose  and  forget  the  book  ;  the  man  is  yours  forever." 

Time  and  again  I  have  been  surprised  and  delighted,  after 
reading  a  tolerably  good  account  of  the  poet,  to  find  the 
substance  of  it  in  a  form  much  more  compact  and  beautiful 
in  Carlyle's  Essay.  Carlyle's  point  of  view  is  so  admirable  ; 
his  criticism  is  so  comprehensive,  so  fair,  so  sympathetic  ; 


xii  THE  MISSION  OF  THE  BOOK. 

his  introduction  of  biographical  material  is  so  effective  in 
interpreting  the  life  and  the  work  of  Burns,  that  if  we  read 
it  and  reread  it,  if  we  absorb  it,  we  shall  soon  come  to 
know  the  peasant  poet.  The  man,  his  life,  and  his  work  are 
peculiarly  inseparable.  Failure  to  recognize  this  has  been 
responsible  for  numberless  misconceptions  and  useless  dis- 
cussions of  Burns.  Carlyle's  recognition  of  it  and  his  skill 
in  treating  the  three  subjects  as  one  have  enabled  him  to 
make  many  a  valuable  criticism. 

In  the  case  of  nearly  every  poem  the  text  is  that  of  the 
Athencetim  Press,  prepared  by  the  late  Professor  J.  G.  Dow, 
under  the  general  editorship  of  Professors  G.  L.  Kittredge 
and  C.  T.  Winchester.  I  have  drawn  freely  from  this 
scholarly  edition,  as  well  as  from  the  more  pretentious 
editions  of  William  Wallace  and  Scott  Douglas. 


POEMS  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


REPRESENTATIVE    POEMS. 


A  LOWER  and  a  lusty  bacheler, 

With  lokkes  crulle  as  they  were  leyd  in  presse. 

Of  twenty  yeer  of  age  he  was,  I  gesse. 

Of  his  stature  he  was  of  evene  lengthe, 

And  wonderly  delivere  and  greet  of  strengthe ;  5 

Smginge  he  was  or  floytinge,  al  the  day ; 
He  was  as  fresh  as  is  the  month  of  May. 

He  coulde  songes  make  and  wel  endite, 

Juste  and  eek  daunce  and  wel  purtreye  and  write. 

So  hote  he  lovede  that  by  nightertale  10 

He  sleep  namore  than  doth  a  nightingale. 

These  lines  from  Chaucer's  description  of  his  squire 
will  serve  to  introduce  Robert  Burns  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
one.  On  the  naturally  robust  frame  of  the  vigorous  lad 
severe  toil  had  already  left  stooping  shoulders,  yet  he  15 
was  attractive  and  full  of  life.  The  fascination  of  his 
large  glowing  eyes,  his  unusual  powers  of  conversation, 
and  his  passion  for  leadership  combined  to  make  him 


2  POEMS  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

conspicuous  in  the  community.  One  who  knew  him  well 
could  see  that  he  was  bent  on  becoming  prominent  out- 
side of  his  native  town.  But  at  the  outset  we  notice  him 
merely  as  an  impetuous  young  man  who  was  continually 
5  falling  in  love  and  writing  verses  about  experiences  of 
which  we  know  little.  In  his  twenty-third  year  he  wrote 
the  following 

SONG.  — MARY    MORISON. 

0  MARY,  at  thy  window  be, 

It  is  the  wish'd,  the  trysted  *  hour  1 
10  Those  smiles  and  glances  let  me  see, 

That  make  the  miser's  treasure  poor : 
How  blythely  wad  I  bide  the  stoure,2 

A  weary  slave  frae  sun  to  sun, 
Could  I  the  rich  reward  secure, 
15  The  lovely  Mary  Morison. 

Yestreen  when  to  the  trembling  string8 
The  dance  gaed  thro'  the  lighted  ha', 
(To  thee  my  fancy  took  its  wing, 

I  sat,  but  neither  heard  nor  sawj) 
20  Tho'  this  was  fair,  and  that  was  braw,4 

And  yon  the  toast  of  a'  the  town, 

1  sigh'd,  and  said  amang  them  a', 

"  Ye  are  na  Mary  Morison." 

O  Mary,  canst  thou  wreck  his  peace, 
25  Wha  for  thy  sake  wad  gladly  die  ? 

Or  canst  thou  break  that  heart  of  his, 
Whase  only  faut  is  loving  thee  ? 

1  agreed  upon.  2  struggle.  8  of  a  village  fiddler  in  the  corner  of 

a  barn  or  a  schoolroom.  4  finely  dressed. 


REPRESENTATIVE  POEMS.  3 

If  love  for  love  thou  wilt  na  gie, 

At  least  be  pity  to  me  shown : 
A  thought  ungentle  canna  be 

The  thought  o'  Mary  Morison. 

This  tender,  quiet,  beautiful  lyric  is  the  work  of  a  singer    5 
who  has  mastered  his  technic.     Some  lovers  of  Burns  will 
surely  agree  with  Hazlitt,  who  says :    "  Of  all  the  pro- 
ductions of  Burns,  the  pathetic  and  serious  love-songs 
which  he  has  left  behind  him  in  the  manner  of  old  bal- 
lads are  perhaps  those  which  take  the  deepest  and  most  10 
lasting  hold  of  the  mind.     Such  are  the  lines  to  'Mary 
Morison '  .  .  .  and  the  song  '  O  my  Love  is  like  a  Red, 
Red  Rose.' " 

Buoyant  as  Burns  was  much  of  the  time,  there  were 
many  occasions  on  which  "fainting  fits"  or  other  symp-  15 
toms  more  or  less  alarming  prompted  verses  of  such  a 
thoroughly  serious  nature  as 

A    PRAYER 

IN   THE  PROSPECT   OF  DEATH. 

OH  thou  unknown  Almighty  Cause 

Of  all  my  hope  and  fear ! 
In  whose  dread  presence,  ere  an  hour,  20 

Perhaps  I  must  appear  1 

If  I  have  wander'd  in  those  paths 

Of  life  I  ought  to  shun  — 
As  something,  loudly,  in  my  breast, 

Remonstrates  I  have  done  —  25 

Thou  know'st  that  Thou  hast  formed  me, 
With  passions  wild  and  strong ; 


POEMS   OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

And  list'ning  to  their  witching  voice 
Has  often  led  me  wrong. 

Where  human  weakness  has  come  short, 

Or  frailty  stept  aside, 
Do  Thou,  All-good  !  —  for  such  Thou  art  — 

In  shades  of  darkness  hide. 


c 


Where  with  intention  I  have  err'd, 

No  other  plea  I  have 

But  —  Thou  art  good  ;  and  Goodness  still 
10  Delighteth  to  forgive.  \ 

This  plea  is  not  unlike  Whittier's  thought  in  The  Eter- 
nal Goodness : 

Yet  in  the  maddening  maze  of  things, 

And  tossed  by  storm  and  flood, 
15  To  one  fixed  trust  my  spirit  clings ; 

I  know  that  God  is  good  ! 

Of  a  production  not  so  remorseful  nor  so  poetic,  "A 
Prayer,  Under  the  Pressure  of  Violent  Anguish,"  John 
Stuart  Blackie  says :  "  The  man  who  could  feel  and  write 

20  thus  was  not  far  from  the  best  piety  of  the  psalms  of 
David." 

In  these  early  days  we  notice  Burns's  ability  to  get  the 
point  of  view  of  dumb  animals.  One  day  Hugh  Wilson, 
a  neighbor  herd  boy,  came  anxiously  running  up  to  tell 

25  Burns  that  the  ewe  had  entangled  herself  in  the  tether. 
Burns  was  much  amused  at  the  alarm  of  the  "  odd,  glow- 
ran,  gapin'  callan,  about  three-fourths  as  wise  as  other 
folk";  he  set  poor  Mailie  free,  and  when  they  returned 
from  the  plow  in  the  evening  he  repeated  to  his  brother 

30  Gilbert,  much  as  it  now  stands, 


REPRESENTATIVE  POEMS.  5 

THE   DEATH    AND    DYING  WORDS    OF   POOR 
MAILIE, 

THE  AUTHOR'S  ONLY  PET  YOWE: 

An  unco  mournfu?  Tale. 

As  Mailie  an'  her  lambs  thegither 

Was  ae  day  nibblin  on  the  tether, 

Upon  her  cloot *  she  coost 2  a  hitch,8 

An'  owre 4  she  warsl'd  5  in  the  ditch : 

There,  groanin,  dyin,  she  did  lie,  5 

When  Hughoc  he  cam  doytin  6  by. 

Wi'  glowrin  een  and  lifted  han's, 
Poor  Hughoc  like  a  statue  Stan's ; 
He  saw  her  days  were  near-hand  ended, 
But  wae  's  my  heart !  he  could  na  mend  it.  10 

He  gaped  wide  but  naething  spak  — 
At  length  poor  Mailie  silence  brak. 

"  O  thou,  whase  lamentable  face 
Appears  to  mourn  my  woefu'  case ! 
My  dying  words  attentive  hear,  ,  15 

An'  bear  them  to  my  Master  dear. 

"  Tell  him,  if  e'er  again  he  keep 
As  muckle  gear 7  as  buy  a  sheep  — 
Oh,  bid  him  never  tie  them  mair 
Wi'  wicked  strings  o'  hemp  or  hair !  20 

But  ca' 8  them  out  to  park  or  hill, 
An'  let  them  wander  at  their  will : 
So  may  his  flock  increase  and  grow 
To  scores  o'  lambs  and  packs  o'  woo' ! 

•*  hoof.        2  cast.       8  loop.       4  over.       6  struggled.        6  walking  stupidly. 
7  much  wealth.        8  drive. 


6  POEMS  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

\" Tell  him,  he  was  a  Master  kin', 
An'  aye  was  guid  l  to  me  an'  mine ; 
An'  now  my  dying  charge  I  gie  him  — 
My  helpless  lambs,  I  trust  them  wi'  him.) 

5  "  Oh,  bid  him  save  their  harmless  lives 

Frae  dogs,  an'  tods,2  an'  butchers'  knives ! 
But  gie  them  guid  cow-milk  their  fill, 
Till  they  be  fit  to  fend8  themsel ; 
An'  tent 4  them  duly,  e'en  an'  morn, 
10  Wi'  taets  6  o'  hay,  an'  ripps  6  o'  corn. 

"  An'  may  they  never  learn  the  gaets 7 
Of  ither  vile,  wanrestfu' 8  pets, 
To  slink  through  slaps,9  an'  reave 10  an'  steal 
At  stacks  o'  peas,  or  stocks  o'  kail.11 
15  So  may  they,  like  their  great  forbears, 

For  monie  a  year  come  thro'  the  shears : 

So  wives  will  gie  them  bits  o'  bread, 

An'  bairns  greet 12  for  them  when  they  're  dead. 

"  My  poor  toop-lamb,18  my  son  an'  heir, 
20  Oh,  bid  him  breed  him  up  wi'  care ; 

An'  if  he  live  to  be  a  beast, 
To  pit  some  havins 14  in  his  breast ! 

"  An'  warn  him,  what  I  winna  "  name, 
To  stay  content  wi'  yowes 16  at  hame ; 
25  An'  no  to  rin 17  an'  wear  his  cloots, 

Like  ither  menseless,18  graceless  brutes. 

1  good.  2  foxes.  3  provide  for.  4  take  care  of.  5  small  quantities. 
8  handfuls.  7  ways.  8  restless.  9  gaps  in  a  fence.  10  rob. 
11  cabbage.  i2  weep.  13  ram.  14  sense  of  propriety.  15  will  not. 
16  ewes.  17  run.  18  indiscreet. 


REPRESENTATIVE   POEMS,  ? 

"  And  niest l  my  yowie,2  silly  thing, 
Gude 3  keep  thee  frae  a  tether  string  1 
Oh,  may  thou  ne'er  forgather4  up 
Wi'  ony  blastit,  moorland  toop, 

(  But  ay  keep  mind  to  moop 5  and  mell 6  5 

Wi'  sheep  o'  credit  like  thysel !  j 

"  And  now,  my  bairns,  wi'  my  last  breath 
I  lea'e  my  blessin  wi'  you  baith ; 
(And  when  you  think  upo'  your  mither, 
Mind  to  be  kin'  to  ane  anither.)  10 

"  Now,  honest  Hughoc,  dinna  fail 
To  teli  my  master  a'  my  tale ; 
An'  bid  him  burn  this  cursed  tether, 
An'  for  thy  pains  thou  'se  get  my  blether."7 

This  said,  poor  Mailie  turn'd  her  head,  15 

An'  closed  her  een  amang  the  dead ! 

Written  later,  apparently,  was 


POOR    MAILIE'S    ELEGY. 

LAMENT  in  rhyme,  lament  in  prose, 

Wi'  saut  tears  tricklin  doun  your  nose ; 

Our  Bardie's  fate  is  at  a  close,  20 

Past  a'  remead  ; 8 
The  last,  sad  cape-stane9  o'  his  woe  's — 

Poor  Mailie  's  dead ! 

It 's  no  the  loss  o'  warl's  gear,10 

That  could  sae  bitter  draw  the  tear,  25 

next.         2  little  ewe.         3  God.         *  meet.          5  nibble.        6  associate. 
7  bladder.      8  remedy.      9  copestone.      10  world's  goods. 


8  POEMS   OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

Or  mak  our  Bardie,  dowie,1  wear 

The  mournin  weed : 
He  's  lost  a  friend  and  neebor  dear, 

In  Mailie  dead. 

5  Thro'  a'  the  toun  she  trotted  by  him ; 

A  lang  half-mile  she  could  descry  him ; 
Wi'  kindly  bleat,  when  she  did  spy  him, 

She  ran  wi'  speed  : 

A  friend  mair  faithfu'  ne'er  cam  nigh  him, 
10  Than  Mailie  dead. 

I  wat2  she  was  a  sheep  o'  sense, 
An'  could  behave  hersel  wi'  mense;3 
I  '11  say 't,  she  never  brak  a  fence, 

Thro'  thievish  greed. 
15  Our  Bardie,  lanely,  keeps  the  spence4 

Sin  Mailie 's  dead. 

Or,  if  he  wanders  up  the  howe,6 
Her  livin  image  in  her  yowe 
Comes  bleatin  till 6  him,  owre  the  knowe, 7 
20  For  bits  o'  bread  ; 

An'  down  the  briny  pearls  rowe8 
For  Mailie  dead. 

She  was  nae  get9  o'  moorlan'  tips,10 
Wi'  tawted  ket,11  an'  hairy  hips ; 
*S  For  her  forbears  were  brought  in  ships, 

Frae  yont  the  Tweed : 
A  bonier  fleesh  ne'er  cross'd  the  clips 12 

Than  Mailie 's  dead. 

1  low-spirited.      2  know.      3  decorum.       4  inner  room.        5  valley.        6  to. 
7  knoll.      8  roll.      9  offspring.      10  rams.      H  matted  fleece.      12  shears. 


REPRESENTATIVE   POEMS.  9 

Wae  worth 1  the  man  wha  first  did  shape 
That  vile,  wanchancie 2  thing  —  a  rape  ! 
It  makes  guid  fellows  girn  an'  gape,3 

Wi'  chokin  dread ; 
An'  Robin's  bonnet  wave  wi'  crape,  5 

For  Mailie  dead. 

O  a'  ye  Bards  on  bonie  Boon ! 

An'  wha  on  Ayr  your  chanters 4  tune ! 

Come,  join  the  melancholious  croon 

O'  Robin's  reed  !  10 

His  heart  will  never  get  aboon  — 6 

His  Mailie  's  dead. 

Farming  was  hard  work  for  Burns ;  he  preferred  the 
lyre  to  the  plow.  To  show  which  class  of  men  he  belonged 
to  he  wrote  the  15 

SONG,  — GREEN  GROW  THE  RASHES. 

CHORUS.  —  GREEN  grow  the  rashes,6  O ! 
Green  grow  the  rashes,  O ! 

The  sweetest  hours  that  e'er  I  spend 
Are  spent  amang  the  lasses,  O. 

There 's  nought  but  care  on  ev'ry  han',  20 

In  every  hour  that  passes,  O  : 
What  signifies  the  life  o'  man, 

An  't  were  na  for  the  lasses,  O  ? 

The  war'ly7  race  may  riches  chase, 

An'  riches  still  may  fly  them,  O  ;  25 

1  woe  be  to.          2  unlucky.  &  gnash  the  teeth.          4  pipes  of  a  bagpipe. 

6  above.        6  rushes.        7  worldly. 


10  POEMS  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

An'  tho'  at  last  they  catch  them  fast, 
Their  hearts  can  ne'er  enjoy  them,  O. 

But  gie  me  a  cannie l  hour  at  e'en, 

My  arms  about  my  dearie,  O ; 
5  An'  war'ly  cares,  an'  war'ly  men, 

May  a'  gae  tapsalteerie,2  O. 

For  you  sae  douce,8  ye  sneer  at  this ; 

Ye  're  nought  but  senseless  asses,  O  : 
The  wisest  man  the  warl'  e'er  saw, 
10  He  dearly  lov'd  the  lasses  O. 

Auld  Nature  swears,  the  lovely  dears 
Her  noblest  work  she  classes,  O : 

Her  prentice  han'  she  try'd  on  man, 
An*  then  she  made  the  lasses,  O. 

15  As  these  verses  suggest,  —  he  calls  them  the  genuine 
language  of  his  heart,  —  he  turned  instinctively  from 
the  grave,  money-getting,  place-seeking  men  to  the  gay 
group  of  pleasure-lovers.  Yet  the  struggling  peasant 
poet,  always  impatient  of  inequalities  of  rank,  was  often 

20  in  the  mood  of 


MAN   WAS    MADE   TO    MOURN, 

A   DIRGE. 

WHEN  chill  November's  surly  blast 
Made  fields  and  forests  bare, 

One  ev'ning  as  I  wander'd  forth 
Along  the  banks  of  Ayr, 

1  quiet.  *  topsy-turvy.  3  solemn. 


REPRESENTATIVE   POEMS.  11 

I  spied  a  man,  whose  aged  step 

Seem'd  weary,  worn  with  care ; 
His  face  was  furrow'd  o'er  with  years, 

And  hoary  was  his  hair. 

"  Young  stranger,  whither  wand'rest  thou  ?  "  5 

Began  the  rev'rend  sage ; 
"  Dost  thirst  of  wealth  thy  step  constrain, 

Or  youthful  pleasure's  rage  ? 
Or  haply,  prest  with  cares  and  woes, 

Too  soon  thou  hast  began  10 

To  wander  forth,  with  me  to  mourn 

The  miseries  of  man. 

"  The  sun  that  overhangs  yon  moors, 

Out-spreading  far  and  wide, 
Where  hundreds  labour  to  support  15 

A  haughty  lordling's  pride  ;  — 
I  've  seen  yon  weary  winter-sun 

Twice  forty  times  return  ; 
And  ev'ry  time  has  added  proofs, 

That  man  was  made  to  mourn.  20 

"  O  man  !  while  in  thy  early  years, 

How  prodigal  of  time  ! 
Mis-spending  all  thy  precious  hours  — 

Thy  glorious,  youthful  prime  1 
Alternate  follies  take  the  sway ;  25 

Licentious  passions  burn ; 
Which  tenfold  force  gives  Nature's  law 

That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

"  Look  not  alone  on  youthful  prime, 

Or  manhood's  active  might ;  30 


12  POEMS   OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

Man  then  is  useful  to  his  kind, 

Supported  is  his  right : 
But  see  him  on  the  edge  of  life, 
With  cares  and  sorrows  worn, 
5  Then  Age  and  Want,  oh !  ill-match'd  pair 

Shew  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

"  A  few  seem  favourites  of  fate, 

In  pleasure's  lap  carest ; 
Yet,  think  not  all  the  rich  and  great 
10  Are  likewise  truly  blest : 

But,  oh  !  what  crowds  in  ev'ry  land 

All  wretched  and  forlorn, 
Thro'  weary  life  this  lesson  learn, 

That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 


15  "  Many  and  sharp  the  num'rous  ills 

Inwoven  with  our  frame  ! 
More  pointed  still  we  make  ourselves, 

Regret,  remorse,  and  shame ! 
And  man,  whose  heaven-erected  face 
20  The  smiles  of  love  adorn,  — 

Man's  inhumanity  to  man 

Makes  countless  thousands  mourn 

"  See  yonder  poor,  o'erlabour'd  wight, 

So  abject,  mean,  and  vile, 
25  Who  begs  a  brother  of  the  earth 

To  give  him  leave  to  toil ; 
And  see  his  lordly  fellow-worm 

The  poor  petition  spurn, 
Unmindful,  tho'  a  weeping  wife 
30  And  helpless  offspring  mourn. 


REPRESENTATIVE   POEMS.  13 

"  If  I  *m  design'd  yon  lordling's  slave, 

By  Nature's  law  design'd, 
Why  was  an  independent  wish 

E'er  planted  in  my  mind  ? 
If  not,  why  am  I  subject  to  S 

His  cruelty,  or  scorn  ? 
Or  why  has  man  the  will  and  pow'r 

To  make  his  fellow  mourn  ? 

"  Yet,  let  not  this  too  much,  my  son, 

Disturb  thy  youthful  breast ;  10 

This  partial  view  of  human-kind 

Is  surely  not  the  last ! 
The  poor,  oppressed,  honest  man, 

Had  never,  sure,  been  born, 
Had  there  not  been  some  recompense  i$ 

To  comfort  those  that  mourn ! 

"  O  Death  !  the  poor  man's  dearest  friend,1 

The  kindest  and  the  best ! 
Welcome  the  hour  my  aged  limbs 

Are  laid  with  thee  at  rest !  20 

The  great,  the  wealthy  fear  thy  blow, 

From  pomp  and  pleasure  torn ; 
But,  oh  !  a  blest  relief  to  those 

That  weary-laden  mourn !  " 

Up  to  the  age  of  twenty-five,  Burns  was  without  serious  25 
aim  in  life.     About  that  time  he  wrote  of  his  wish  to  be  a 
poet.     "  The  romantic  woodlands  &  sequestered  scenes 
of  Aire  ...  &  the  winding  sweep  of  Doon  "  needed  a 

1  "  A  WORLD  TO  COME  !  is  the  only  genuine  balm  for  an  agonising  heart, 
torn  to  pieces  in  the  wrench  of  parting  forever  (to  mortal  view)  with  friends, 
inmates  of  the  bosom  and  dear  to  the  soul."  —  Burns  to  Mrs.  Dunhp,  1790. 


14  POEMS   OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

singer.  "  Alas !  I  am  far  unequal  to  the  task,  both  in 
native  genius  and  education.  Obscure  I  am  &  obscure  I 
must  be,  though  no  young  Poet  nor  Young  Soldier's  heart 
ever  beat  more  fondly  for  fame  than  mine."  A  few 
5  months  later  appeared  the 


SONG,  — RANTIN   ROVIN   ROBIN. 

THERE  was  a  lad  was  born  in  Kyle,1 
But  whatna  2  day  o'  whatna  style,8 
I  doubt  it 's  hardly  worth  the  while 
To  be  sae  nice  wi'  Robin. 


10  CHORUS.  —  Robin  was  a  rovin  boy, 

Rantin,4  rovin,  rantin,  rovin ; 
Robin  was  a  rovin  boy, 
Rantin,  rovin  Robin. 

Our  monarch's  hindmost  year  but  ane 
15  Was  five-and-twenty  days  begun,5 

'Twas  then  a  blast  o'  Janwar*  win' 
Blew  hansel6  in  on  Robin. 

The  gossip 7  keekit 8  in  his  loof,9 
Quo'  scho,10  "  Wha  lives  will  see  the  proof, 
20  This  waly  n  boy  will  be  nae  coof ; 12 

I  think  we  '11  ca'  him  Robin. 


1  the  central  district  of  Ayrshire,  between  the  Irvine  and  the  Boon.  2  what 
particular.  8  whether  "  old  style  "  or  "  new  style."  4  full  of  animal 
spirits.  5  George  II ;  25  January,  1759.  6  first  money,  or  gift, 

bestowed  on  a  special  occasion.          7  sponsor  in  baptism.         8  peeped. 
9  palm.        1°  she.        U  goodly.        *2  fool. 


REPRESENTATIVE   POEMS.  15 

"  He  '11  hae  misfortunes  great  and  sma', 
But  aye  a  heart  aboon  them  a' ; 
He '11  be  a  credit  till l  us  a'  — 
We  '11  a'  be  proud  o'  Robin. 

"  But  sure  as  three  times  three  mak  nine,  5 

I  see  by  ilka2  score  and  line, 
This  chap  will  dearly  like  our  kin', 
So  leeze  8  me  on  thee,  Robin." 

Without  overestimating  his  ability,   Burns  was  coura- 
geous and  confident.     Within  little  more  than  a  year  he  10 
wrote  most  of  the  poems  that  have  made  him  famous,  and 
about  this  time  he  began  to  think  of  publishing. 

During,  the  autumn  and  winter  seasons  some  of  his  best 
verses  were  composed  while  he  was  holding  the  plow. 
On  one  occasion  the  boy  who  was  guiding  the  horses  ran  15 
after  a  field  mouse  to  kill  it  with  the  "pattle."  Burns 
promptly  called  him  back,  and  soon  afterward  read  to 
him  the  poem 


TO  A  MOUSE, 

ON  TURNING  UP  HER  NEST  WITH  THE  PLOUGH, 
NOVEMBER,  1785. 

WEE,  sleekit,  cowrin,  tim'rous  beastie, 

Oh,  what  a  panic 's  in  thy  breastie  !  20 

Thou  need  na  start  awa  sae  hasty 

Wi'  bickerin  brattle  ! 4 
I  wad  be  laith  to  rin  an'  chase  thee 

Wi'  murd'rin  pattle  ! 5 

1  to.         2  each,  every.         3  blessings  on.          4  hasty  scamper.         6 
to  remove  clay  that  clung  to  the  plowshare. 


16  POEMS   OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

I  'm  truly  sorry  man's  dominion 
Has  broken  nature's  social  union, 
An'  justifies  that  ill  opinion 

Which  makes  thee  startle 
5  At  me,  thy  poor  earth-born  companion, 

An'  fellow-mortal ! 

I  doubt  na,  whyles,1  but  thou  may  thieve : 
What  then  ?  poor  beastie,  thou  maun  live ! 
A  daimen  icker  in  a  thrave 2 
10  'S  a  sma'  request ; 

I  '11  get  a  blessin  wi'  the  lave,8 
An'  never  miss  't ! 

Thy  wee  bit  housie,  too,  in  ruin ! 
Its  silly  4  wa's  b  the  win's  6  are  strewin  ! 
15  An'  naething,  now,  to  big7  a  new  ane, 

O' f°ggage  8  green  ! 
An'  bleak  December's  winds  ensuin 

Baith  snell9  an'  keen! 

Thou  saw  the  fields  laid  bare  and  waste,    . 
20  An'  weary  winter  comin  fast, 

An'  cozie  here  beneath  the  blast 

Thou  thought  to  dwell, 
Till  crash  !  the  cruel  coulter  past 

Out  thro'  thy  cell. 

25  That  wee  bit  heap  o'  leaves  an'  stibble 

Has  cost  thee  mony  a  weary  nibble  ! 
Now  thou 's  turn'd  out  for 10  a'  thy  trouble, 

l  sometimes.  2  an  occasional  ear  of  grain  in  twenty-four  sheaves 

3  remainder.  4  weak.  5  walls.  6  winds.  7  build, 

8  rank  grass.          9  biting.          10  in  return  for. 


REPRESENTATIVE  POEMS.  17 

But1  house  or  hald,2 
To  thole8  the  winter's  sleety  dribble 
An'  cranreuch4  cauld  I 

But,  Mousie,  thou  art  no  thy  lane5 

In  proving  foresight  may  be  vain  :  5 

The  best  laid  schemes  o'  mice  an'  men 

Gang  aft  a-gley, 
An'  lea'e  us  nought  but  grief  an'  pain 

For  promis'd  joy. 

Still  thou  art  blest,  compar'd  wi'  me !  10 

The  present  only  toucheth  thee : 
But,  och  !  I  backward  cast  my  ee 

On  prospects  drear  I 
An'  forward,  tho'  I  canna  see, 

I  guess  an'  fear  !  15 


From  this  expression  of  the  poet's  fine,  sincere  sym- 
pathy with  nature  we  turn  to  a  picture  of  family  life.  It 
becomes  doubly  attractive  when  we  consider  it  as  a  faith- 
ful revelation  of  Scottish  home  life,  family  devotion  and 
patriotism.  And  we  cherish  it  all  the  more  because  it  20 
gives  us  a  glimpse  of  Burns's  own  father  and  his  home. 
After  the  father's  death  Burns,  as  the  oldest  son,  took 
his  place  at  devotions.  He  conducted  the  family  wor- 
ship every  night  when  at  home  during  his  residence  at 
Mossgiel.  25 

i  without.  2  holding.  8  endure.  4  hoarfrost.  5  not  alone. 


18  POEMS   OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


THE   COTTER'S   SATURDAY  NIGHT. 

INSCRIBED    TO   ROBERT   AIKEN,   ESQ. 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 
Their  homely  joys  and  destiny  obscure  ; 

Nor  Grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor.  —  GRAY. 

MY  lov'd,  my  honour'd,  much  respected  friend ! 

No  mercenary  bard  his  homage  pays ; 
With  honest  pride,  I  scorn  each  selfish  end : 

My  dearest  meed  a  friend's  esteem  and  praise. 
5  To  you  I  sing,  in  simple  Scottish  lays, 

The  lowly  train  in  life's  sequester'd  scene ; 

The  native  feelings  strong,  the  guileless  ways  ; 
What  Aiken  in  a  cottage  would  have  been ; 
Ah !  tho'  his  worth  unknown,  far  happier  there,  I  ween ! 

10      November  chill  blaws  loud  wi'  angry  sughi 

The  short'ning  winter  day  is  near  a  close ; 
The  miry  beasts  retreating  frae  the  pleugh, 

The  black'ning  trains  o'  craws  to  their  repose ; 
The  toil-worn  Cotter  frae  his  labour  goes,  — 
15       This  night  his  weekly  moil1  is  at  an  end, — 

Collects  his  spades,  his  mattocks,  and  his  hoes, 
Hoping  the  morn  in  ease  and  rest  to  spend, 
And  weary,  o'er  the  moor,  his  course  does  hameward  bend. 

At  length  his  lonely  cot  appears  in  view, 
20  Beneath  the  shelter  of  an  aged  tree ; 

Th'  expectant  wee-things,  toddlin,  stacher 2  through 

To  meet  their  dad,  wi'  flichterin3  noise  an'  glee. 

His  wee  bit  ingle,4  blinkin  bonilie, 

l  toil.  2  stagger.  3  fluttering.  4  fireplace. 


REPRESENTATIVE  POEMS.  19 

His  clean  hearth-stane,  his  thrifty  wifie's  smile, 

The  lisping  infant  prattling  on  his  knee, 

Does  a'  his  weary  kiaugh 1  and  care 2  beguile, 

An'  makes  him  quite  forget  his  labour  an'  his  toil. 

Belyve,8  the  elder  bairns  come  drappin  in,  5 

At  service  out  amang  the  farmers  roun' ; 
Some  ca  the  pleugh,  some  herd,  some  tentie 4  rin 

A  cannie  5  errand  to  a  neibor  toun  :  6 

Their  eldest  hope,  their  Jenny,  woman-grown, 
In  youthfu'  bloom,  love  sparkling  in  her  ee,  10 

Comes  hame,  perhaps  to  shew  a  braw  new  gown, 
Or  deposit  her  sair-won  penny-fee, 
To  help  her  parents  dear,  if  they  in  hardship  be. 

With  joy  unfeign'd  brothers  and  sisters  meet, 

An'  each  for  other's  weelfare  kindly  spiers  :7  15 

The  social  hours,  swift-wing'd,  unnotic'd  fleet ; 

Each  tells  the  uncos  8  that  he  sees  or  hears. 

The  parents,  partial,  eye  their  hopeful  years ; 
Anticipation  forward  points  the  view ; 

The  mother,  wi'  her  needle  an'  her  sheers,  20 

Gars  9  auld  claes  look  amaist  as  weel  's  the  new ; 
The  father  mixes  a'  wi'  admonition  due. 

Their  master's  an'  their  mistress's  command 
The  younkers  a'  are  warned  to  obey ; 

An'  mind  their  labours  wi'  an  eydent10  hand,  25 

An'  ne'er,  tho'  out  o'  sight,  to  jauk11  or  play : 
"  An'  O  !  be  sure  to  fear  the  Lord  alway, 


l  fret.       2  the  original  words,  changed  in  a  later  edition  to  "  carking  cares." 
8  presently.  *  attentive.  5  careful.  6  farm.  7  asks. 

8  news.  9  makes.  10  diligent.  u.  trifle. 


20  POEMS   OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

An'  mind  your  duty,  duly,  morn  an'  night ! 
Lest  in  temptation's  path  ye  gang  astray, 
Implore  His  counsel  and  assisting  might : 
They  never  sought  in  vain  that  sought  the  Lord  aright !  " 

5       But  hark !  a  rap  comes  gently  to  the  door. 

Jenny,  wha  kens  the  meaning  o'  the  same, 
Tells  how  a  neibor  lad  cam  o'er  the  moor, 
To  do  some  errands,  and  convoy  her  hame. 
The  wily  mother  sees  the  conscious  flame 
10       Sparkle  in  Jenny's  ee,  and  flush  her  cheek ; 

Wi'  heart-struck,  anxious  care,  inquires  his  name, 
While  Jenny  hafflins1  is  afraid  to  speak; 
Weel  pleas'd  the  mother  hears  it's  nae  wild  worthless  rake. 

Wi'  kindly  welcome  Jenny  brings  him  ben,2 
15          A  strappin  youth  ;  he  takes  the  mother's  eye; 
Blythe  Jenny  sees  the  visit 's  no  ill  taen  ; 
The  father  cracks8  of  horses,  pleughs,  and  kye. 
The  youngster's  artless  heart  o'erflows  wi'  joy, 
But,  blate 4  and  laithf  u',c  scarce  can  weel  behave ; 
20  The  mother  wi'  a  woman's  wilei6  can  spy 

What  maks  the  youth  sae  bashfu'  an'  sae  grave, 
Weel  pleas'd  to  think  her  bairn 's  respected  like  the  lave.7 

O  happy  love  !  where  love  like  this  is  found  ! 

O  heart-felt  raptures  !  bliss  beyond  compare  I 
25       I  've  paced  much  this  weary,  mortal  round, 

And  sage  experience  bids  me  this  declare  — 
"If  Heaven  a  draught  of  heavenly  pleasure  spare, 
One  cordial  in  this  melancholy  vale, 

'T  is  when  a  youthful,  loving,  modest  pair, 
30       In  other's  arms  breathe  out  the  tender  tale, 

Beneath  the  milk-white  thorn  that  scents  the  ev'ning  gale.'* 

1  partly.       2  in.       8  talks.       4  bashful.        6  shy.        6  penetration.      7  rest. 


REPRESENTATIVE  POEMS.  21 

Is  there,  in  human  form,  that  bears  a  heart, 

A  wretch  !  a  villain  !  lost  to  love  and  truth  ! 
That  can  with  studied,  sly,  ensnaring  art 

Betray  sweet  Jenny's  unsuspecting  youth  ? 

Curse  on  his  perjur'd  arts  !  dissembling  smooth  !          5 
Are  honour,  virtue,  conscience,  all  exil'd  ? 

Is  there  no  pity,  no  relenting  ruth, 
Points  to  the  parents  fondling  o'er  their  child, 
Then  paints  the  ruin'd  maid,  and  their  distraction  wild  ?     . 

But  now  the  supper  crowns  their  simple  board,  10 

The  halesome  parritch,1  chief  of  Scotia's  food ; 
The  sowpe2  their  only  hawkie3  does  afford, 

That  yont  the  hallan4  snugly  chows  her  cud. 

The  dame  brings  forth,  in  complimental  mood, 
To  grace  the  lad,  her  weel-hain'd  kebbuck5  fell,  15 

An'  aft6  he 's  prest,  an'  aft  he  ca's  it  guid  ;7 
The  frugal  wifie,  garrulous,  will  tell, 
How  'twas  a  towmond8  auld,  sin'  lint  was  i'  the  bell.9 

[    The  cheerfu'  supper  done,  wi'  serious  face, 
\       They  round  the  ingle  form  a  circle  wide  ;  20 

The  sire  turns  o'er  with  patriarchal  grace 
The  big  ha'-bible,10  ance  his  father's  pride  ; 
His  bonnet  rev'rently  is  laid  aside, 
His  lyart  haffets11  wearing  thin  and  bare ; 

Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in  Zion  glide,          25 
He  wales12  a  portion  with  judicious  care  ; 
And,  "  Let  us  worship  GOD,"  he  says  with  solemn  air. 

They  chant  their  artless  notes  in  simple  guise ; 
They  tune  their  hearts,  by  far  the  noblest  aim : 

1  porridge.  2  liquid  food.  3  cow.  4  porch.  5  well-spared  cheese. 
6  often.  7  good.  8  twelvemonth.  9  flax  in  flower.  10  large  family 
Bible  kept  in  the  hall  or  chief  room.  n  gray  side-locks.  I2  selects. 


22  POEMS   OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

Perhaps  Dundee's^  wild-warbling  measures  rise, 
Or  plaintive  Martyrs?  worthy  of  the  name, 
Or  noble  Elgin1  beets2  the  heaven-ward  flame, 
The  sweetest  far  of  Scotia's  holy  lays. 
5  Compar'd  with  these,  Italian  trills  are  tame ; 

The  tickPd  ear  no  heart-felt  raptures  raise ; 
Nae  unison  hae  they  with  our  Creator's  praise. 

The  priest-like  father  reads  the  sacred  page,  — 
How  Abram  was  the  friend  of  GOD  on  high ; 
10       Or  Moses  bade  eternal  warfare  wage 
With  Amalek's  ungracious  progeny ; 
Or  how  the  royal  bard  did  groaning  lie 
Beneath  the  stroke  of  heaven's  avenging  ire ; 
Or  Job's  pathetic  plaint,  and  wailing  cry; 
15       Or  rapt  Isaiah's  wild,  seraphic  fire; 

Or  other  holy  seers  that  tune  the  sacred  lyre. 

Perhaps  the  Christian  volume  is  the  theme,  — 

How  guiltless  blood  for  guilty  man  was  shed ; 
How  HE,  who  bore  in  heav'n  the  second  name, 
20  Had  not  on  earth  whereon  to  lay  His  head : 

How  His  first  followers  and  servants  sped  ; 8 
The  precepts  sage  they  wrote  to  many  a  land : 4 

How  he,  who  lone  in  Patmos  banished, 
Saw  in  the  sun  a  mighty  angel  stand, 

25  And  heard  great  Bab'lon's  doom  pronounced  by  Heav'n's 
command.5 

Then  kneeling  down  to  HEAVEN'S  ETERNAL  KING, 

The  saint,  the  father,  and  the  husband  prays : 
Hope  "  springs  exulting  on  triumphant  wing," 

1  favorite  psalm  tunes.  2  adds  fuel  to.  3  the  Acts  of  the  Apostles. 

4  the  Epistles.  6  the  Apocalypse. 


REPRESENTATIVE  POEMS.  23 

That  thus  they  all  shall  meet  in  future  days  : 

There  ever  bask  in  uncreated  rays, 
No  more  to  sigh  or  shed  the  bitter  tear, 

Together  hymning  their  Creator's  praise, 
In  such  society,  yet  still  more  dear,  5 

While  circling  Time  moves  round  in  an  eternal  sphere. 

Compar'd  with  this,  how  poor  Religion's  pride 

In  all  the  pomp  of  method  and  of  art, 
When  men  display  to  congregations  wide 

Devotion's  ev'ry  grace  except  the  heart !  10 

The  Pow'r,  incens'd,  the  pageant  will  desert, 
The  pompous  strain,  the  sacerdotal  stole ; 

But  haply  in  some  cottage  far  apart 
May  hear,  well  pleased,  the  language  of  the  soul, 
And  in  His  book  of  life  the  inmates  poor  enrol.  15 

Then  homeward  all  take  off  their  sev'ral  way ; 

The  youngling  cottagers  retire  to  rest ; 
The  parent-pair  their  secret  homage  pay, 

And  proffer  up  to  Heav'n  the  warm  request, 

That  He,  who  stills  the  raven's  clam'rous  nest  20 

And  decks  the  lily  fair  in  flow'ry  pride, 

Would,  in  the  way  His  wisdom  sees  the  best, 
For  them  and  for  their  little  ones  provide ; 
But  chiefly,  in  their  hearts  with  grace  divine  preside. 

From  scenes  like  these  old  Scotia's  grandeur  springs,     25 
That  makes  her  lov'd  at  home,  rever'd  abroad : 

Princes  and  lords  are  but  the  breath  of  kings, 
"  An  honest  man  's  the  noblest  work  of  God  "  : l 

l  Cf.  Fletcher's 

Man  is  his  own  star ;  and  that  soul  that  can 
Be  honest  is  the  only  perfect  man, 

and  Pope,  Essay  on  Man,  247. 


24  POEMS  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

And  certes,  in  fair  Virtue's  heavenly  road, 
The  cottage  leaves  the  palace  far  behind  : 

What  is  a  lordling's  pomp  ?  a  cumbrous  load, 
Disguising  oft  the  wretch  of  human  kind, 
5  Studied  in  arts  of  hell,  in  wickedness  refin'd ! 

0  Scotia  !  my  dear,  my  native  soil ! 

For  whom  my  warmest  wish  to  Heaven  is  sent ! 
Long  may  thy  hardy  sons  of  rustic  toil 

Be  blest  with  health,  and  peace,  and  sweet  content ! 
10          And,  oh !  may  Heaven  their  simple  lives  prevent 
From  luxury's  contagion,  weak  and  vile ! 

Then,  howe'er  crowns  and  coronets  be  rent, 
A  virtuous  populace  may  rise  the  while, 
And  stand  a  wall  of  fire  around  their  much-lov'd  isle. 

15      O  Thou  !  who  pour'd  the  patriotic  tide 

That  stream'd  thro'  Wallace's l  undaunted  heart, 
Who  dar'd  to  nobly  stem  tyrannic  pride, 
Or  nobly  die,  the  second  glorious  part,  — 
(The  patriot's  God  peculiarly  thou  art, 
20      His  friend,  inspirer,  guardian,  and  reward  !) 

O  never,  never  Scotia's  realm  desert, 
But  still  the  patriot,  and  the  patriot-bard, 
In  bright  succession  raise,  her  ornament  and  guard! 

In  this  triumph   of  piety  and  morality  over  poverty 

25  Burns  gives  us  a  part  of  his  philosophy  of  life.     Like 

Goldsmith,  he  believes  that  happiness  depends  not  on 

wealth  or  rank,  but  on  the  heart.     In  the  Epistle  to  Davie 

he  says : 

If  happiness  hae  not  her  seat 
30  And  centre  in  the  breast, 

1  the  outlaw  knight,  William  Wallace,  who  in  1297  roused  the  Scots  to 
demand  their  freedom;  the  national  hero. 


REPRESENTATIVE   POEMS.  25 

We  may  be  wise,  or  rich,  or  great, 
But  never  can  be  blest : 

Nae  treasures,  nor  pleasures, 

Could  make  us  happy  lang ; 
The  heart  ay 's  the  part  ay,  5 

That  makes  us  right  or  wrang. 

\  Sainte-Beuve:Says  that  in  this  poem  Burns  is  not  only 
picturesque  butp  cordial,  moral,  Christian,  patriotic.  His 
episode  of  Jenny  introduces  and  personifies  the  chastity 
of  emotion ;  the  Bible,  read  aloud,  casts  a  religious  glow  10 
over  the  whole  scene.  Then  come  those  lofty  thoughts 
upon  the  greatness  of  old  Scotland,  which  is  based  on 
such  home  scenes  as  this." 

Burns  included  in  his  family  the  faithful  companion 
whom  he  introduces  in  the  poem  15 


THE  AULD  FARMER'S  NEW-YEAR  MORNING  SAL-. 
UTATION    TO    HIS  AULD   MARE,   MAGGIE, 

ON  GIVING  HER  THE  ACCUSTOMED  RIPP    OF    CORN  TO  HANSEL 
IN    THE    NEW    YEAR. 

A  GUID  New- Year  I  wish  thee,  Maggie ! 
Hae,  there  's  a  ripp1  to  thy  auld  baggie  :2 
Tho'  thou  's  howe-backit3  now,  an'  knaggie,4 

I  've  seen  the  day 
Thou  could  hae  gane  like  ony  staggie5  20 

Out-owre  the  lay.6 

Tho'  now  thou 's  dowie,7  stiff,  an'  crazy, 
An'  thy  auld  hide  's  as  white  's  a  daisie, 
I  've  seen  thee  dappl't,  sleek  an'  glaizie,8 

1  handful.         2  stomach.         3  hollow-backed.        4  bony.        5  colt.         6  lea. 
1  low-spirited.          8  glossy. 


26  POEMS   OF  ROBERT  8URNS. 

A  bonie  gray : 

He  should  been  tight  that  daur't  to  raize  thee,1 
Ance  in  a  day. 

Thou  ance  was  i'  the  foremost  rank, 
5  A  filly  buirdly,2  steeve,3  an'  swank,4 

An'  set  weel  down  a  shapely  shank 

As  e'er  tread  yird;a 
An*  could  hae  flown  out-owre  a  stank6 

Like  ony  bird. 

10  It 's  now  some  nine-and-twenty  year 

Sin'  thou  was  my  guid-father's  meere;7 
He  gied  me  thee,  o'  tocher8  clear, 

An'  fifty  mark ; 
Tho*  it  was  sma',  't  was  weel  won  gear,9 

15  An'  thou  was  stark.10 

When  first  I  gaed  to  woo  my  Jenny, 
Ye  then  was  trottin  wi'  your  minnie  :u 
Tho'  ye  was  trickie,  slee  and  funny, 
Ye  ne'er  was  donsie  ;12 

20  But  namely,  tawie,13  quiet  an*  cannie,14 

An'  unco  sonsie.15 

That  day  ye  pranc'd  wi'  mickle  pride, 
When  ye  bure  hame  my  bonie  bride : 
An'  sweet  an'  gracefu'  she  did  ride, 
25  Wi'  maiden  air  ! 

Kyle-Stewart  I  could  bragged  wide  w 
For  sic  a  pair. 

1  He  should  have  been  girt  for  action  that  dared  to  excite  thee.  2  strong. 
3  firm.  4  stately.  5  earth.  6  ditch.  7  father-in-law's  mare. 
8  dowry.  9  well-earned  money.  10  strong.  n  mother.  12  mis- 
chievous. 13  tame.  14  safe.  15  very  plump.  16  I  could 
have  challenged  the  country  between  the  Irvine  and  the  Ayr. 


REPRESENTATIVE  POEMS.  27 

Tho'  now  ye  dow1  but  hoyte  an'  hoble2 
An'  wintle3  like  a  saumont-coble,4 
That  day  ye  was  a  jinker5  noble 

For  heels  an'  win'  !6 
An'  ran  them  till  they  a'  did  wauble7  5 

Far,  far  behin' ! 

When  thou  an'  I  were  young  an'  skiegh,3 

An'  stable  meals  at  fairs  were  driegh,9 

How  thou  wad  prance  an'  snore  an'  skriegh 10 

An'  tak'  the  road  !  10 

Toun's  bodies  ran  an*  stood  abiegh11 

An'  ca't 12  thee  mad. 

When  thou  was  corn't  an'  I  was  mellow, 

We  took  the  road  ay  like  a  swallow : 

At  brooses 13  thou  had  ne'er  a  fellow  15 

For  pith  an*  speed ; 
But  ev'ry  tail  thou  pay't  them  hollow, 

Whare'er  thou  gaed. 

The  sma',  droop-rumpl't,14  hunter  cattle 

Might  aiblins16  waur't16  thee  for  a  brattle  ;ir  20 

But  sax18  Scotch  mile  thou  try't  their  mettle 

An'  gart19  them  whaizle  i20 
Nae  whip  nor  spur,  but  just  a  wattle21 

O'  saugh 22  or  hazel. 

Thou  was  a  noble  fittie-lan' M  25 

As  e'er  in  tug  or  tow 24  was  drawn ! 

1  can.         2  limp.         8  stagger.  4  salmon-boat.         5  runner.         6  wind. 

7  reel.          8  high-mettled.  9  tedious.           10  whinny.          n  out  of 

the  way.            12  called.  18  A  broose  is  a  race  at  a  country  wedding. 

1*  drooping  at  the  crupper.  15  perhaps.            16  beat.            17  spurt. 

18  six.              19  made.  20  wheeze.              21  switch.            22  willow. 
23  foot-the-land  ;  the  near  horse  of  the  hinder  pair  in  plowing,  which  does 

not  step  in  the  furrow.  24  rope. 


28  POEMS   OF  ROBERT  BURNS, 

Aft  thee  an'  I,  in  aught  hours'  gaun1 

On  guid  March-weather, 
Hae  turn'd  sax  rood2  beside  our  han' 

For  days  thegither. 

5  Thou  never  braing't3  an'  fetch 't4  an'  flisket,6 

But  thy  auld  tail  thou  wad  hae  whisket6 
An'  spread  abreed  thy  weel-fill'd  brisket,7 

Wi'  pith  an'  pow'r, 
Till  spritty  knowes  wad  rair't  and  risket 

10  An'  slypet  owre.8 

When  frosts  lay  lang  an'  snaws  were  deep 
An'  threaten'd  labour  back  to  keep, 
I  gied  thy  cog  a  wee-bit  heap 

Aboon  the  timmer:9 

15  I  ken'd  my  Maggie  wad  na  sleep 

For  that,10  or  simmer.11 

In  cart  or  car  thou  never  reestet ; 
The  steyest  brae u  thou  wad  hae  faced  it ; 
Thou  never  lap13  an'  sten't  an'  breastet,14 
20  Then  stood  to  blaw ; 

But  just  thy  step  a  wee  thing  hastet, 
Thou  snoov  5t  awa.15 

My  pleugh  is  now  thy  bairn-time  a',16 
Four  gallant  brutes  as  e'er  did  draw ; 
25  Forbye17  sax  mae18 1  Ve  sell 't  awa, 

l  eight  hours'  going.  2  six  roods.  8  fretted.  4  raged.  5  kicked. 
6  lashed.  7  breast.  8  «  Till  hillocks,  where  the  earth  was  full  of 
tough-rooted  plants,  would  have  given  forth  a  cracking  sound,  and  the 
clods  fallen  gently  over."  —  Shairp.  9  filled  thy  measure  of  oats  to 

overflowing.  10  "  On  account  of  the  late  season  "  the  spring  work 

would  be  harder.        n  before  summer.        12  steepest  hill.        13  leaped. 
14  reared.  15  moved  on  steadily.  !6  My  plowing  team  of  four 

horses  are  now  thine  offspring.        H  besides.        18  six  more. 


REPRESENTATIVE  POEMS.  29 

That  thou  hast  nurst : 
They  drew  me  thretteen l  pund  an'  twa, 
The  vera  warst. 

Mony  a  sair  daurg2  we  twa  hae  wrought, 

An'  wi'  the  weary  warP  fought !  5 

An'  mony  an  anxious  day  I  thought 

We  wad  be  beat ! 
Yet  here  to  crazy  age  we  're  brought 

Wi'  something  yet 

And  think  na,  my  auld  trusty  servan',  10 

That  now,  perhaps,  thou 's  less  deservin, 
And  thy  auld  days  may  end  in  stervin ; 

For  my  last  fou,3 
A  heapit  stimpart,4  I  '11  reserve  ane, 

Laid  by  for  you.  15 

We  've  worn  to  crazy  years  thegither ; 
We  '11  toyte6  about  wi'  ane  anither; 
Wi'  tentie6  care  I  '11  flit  thy  tether 

To  some  hained  rig,7 
Whare  ye  may  noble  rax8  your  leather,  20 

Wi'  sma'  fatigue. 

Dow  says  this  is  "the  John  Anderson,  my  jo,  of  Burns's 
poems.  It  portrays  a  long  and  tried  friendship  and  those 
relations  of  human  intimacy  that  are  common  between  the 
country  people  of  Scotland  and  their  domestic  animals."  25 

Know  Burns,  know  his  dog.  We  are  quite  ready  to 
make  the  acquaintance  of  a  favorite  dog,  Luath.  In 
order  to  give  Luath  an  opportunity  to  speak  for  himself 
the  poet  created  an  imaginary  Caesar. 

1  thirteen.      2  heavy  day's  work.      3  measure  of  grain.      4  quarter  of  a  peck. 
6  totter.      6  heedfuL      7  reserved  piece  of  ground.      8  stretch. 


30  POEMS  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

THE    TWA    DOGS. 

A   TALE. 

'T  WAS  in  that  place  o'  Scotland's  isle, 
That  bears  the  name  o'  auld  King  Coil,1 
Upon  a  bonie  day  in  June, 
When  wearin'  through  the  afternoon, 
5  Twa  dogs  that  werena  thrang2  at  hame 

Forgathered  ance  upon  a  time. 

The  first  I  '11  name,  they  ca'd  him  Caesar, 
Was  keepit  for  his  Honour's  pleasure ; 
His  hair,  his  size,  his  mouth,  his  lugs,3 
10  Showed  he  was  nane  oj  Scotland's  dogs ; 

But  whalpit4  some  place  far  abroad, 
Whare  sailors  gang  to  fish  for  cod.5 

His  locked,  letter'd,  braw  brass  collar 
Show'd  him  the  gentleman  and  scholar ; 

15  But  though  he  was  o'  high  degree, 

The  fient  a  pride6  —  nae  pride  had  he;7 
But  wad  hae  spent  an  hour  caressin, 
Even  wi'  a  tinkler-gypsy's  messan  :8 
At  kirk  or  market,  mill  or  smiddie,9 

20  Nae  tawted  tyke,10  though  e'er  sae  duddie,11 

But  he  wad  stan't,12  as  glad  to  see  him, 
And  stroan't  on  stanes13  and  hillocks  wi'  him. 


1  Kyle;cf.  Rantin  Rovin  Robin,  i.  Tradition  says  the  district  derived  its 
name  from  Coilus,  "  king  of  the  Picts."  2  busy.  8  ears.  4  whelped. 
6  Newfoundland.  6  no  pride  whatever.  7  Cf.  Lines  on  an  Inter- 
•view  with  Lord  Daer.  8  vagabond-gypsy's  cur.  9  smithy. 

K>  matted  dog.  "  unkempt.  ™  have  stood.  &  stones. 


REPRESENTATIVE   POEMS.  31 

The  tither  was  a  ploughman's  collie, 
A  rhymin,  rantin,  ravin  billie,1 
Wha  for  his  friend  and  comrade  had  him, 
An'  in  his  freaks  had  Luath  ca'd  him, 
After  some  dog  in  Highland  sang,2  5 

Was  made  lang  syne,  —  Lord  knows  how  lang. 

He  was  a  gash3  an'  faithfu'  tyke, 
As  ever  lap4  a  sheugh6  or  dike.6 
His  honest,  sonsie,7  baws'nt  face8 

Ay  gat  him  friends  in  ilka  place  ;  10 

His  breast  was  white,  his  touzie9  back 
Weel  clad  wi'  coat  o'  glossy  black ; 
His  gawcie 10  tail  wi'  upward  curl 
Hung  owre  his  hurdies11  wi'  a  swirl. 

Nae  doubt  but  they  were  fain12  o'  ither,  15 

An'  unco  pack  an'  thick  thegither ; 
Wi'  social  nose  whyles13  snuff'd14  and  snowket; 
Whyles  mice  and  moudieworts15  they  howket;16 
Whyles  scour'd  awa  in  lang  excursion 
An'  worry'd  ither  in  diversion  ; 17  20 

Until  wi'  daffin  weary  grown, 
Upon  a  knowe 18  they  sat  them  down, 
An'  there  began  a  lang  digression 
About  the  'lords  o'  the  creation.' 

CAESAR. 

I  Ve  aften  wondered,  honest  Luath,  25 

What  sort  o'  life  poor  dogs  like  you  have ; 

fellow.  2  Cuchullin's  dog  in  Ossian's  Fingal.  —  B.  3  wise.  4  leaped. 
5  ditch.  6  wall.  r  handsome.  8  with  a  white  stripe  down  the 
face.  9  shaggy.  10  big  and  lusty.  n  hips.  12  fond. 

13  sometimes.        14  scented.        15  moles.        16  dug  up.        17  romping. 
18  knoll 


32  POEMS  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

And  when  the  gentry's  life  I  saw, 
What  way  poor  bodies  liv'd  ava.1 

Our  laird  gets  in  his  racket  rents, 
His  coals,  his  kain,2  and  a'  his  stents;8 

5          He  rises  when  he  likes  himsel ; 
His  flunkies  answer  at  the  bell ; 
He  ca's  his  coach,  he  ca's  his  horse ; 
He  draws  a  bonie  silken  purse 
As  lang  's  my  tail,  where  through  the  steeks* 

10         The  yellow-lettered  Geordie  keeks.5 

Frae  morn  to  e'en  it 's  nought  but  toilin, 

At  bakin,  roastin,  fryin,  boilin ; 

And  though  the  gentry  first  are  stechin,6 

Yet  ev'n  the  ha'-folk7  fill  their  pechan8 
15         Wi'  sauce,  ragouts,  an'  sic  like  trashtrie, 

That 's  little  short  o'  downright  wastrie. 

Our  whipper-in,  wee  blastit  wonner,9 

Poor  worthless  elf,  it  eats  a  dinner 

Better  than  ony  tenant  man 
20          His  Honour  has  in  a'  the  Ian'; 

And  what  poor  cot-folk  pit10  their  painch11  in, 

I  own  it 's  past  my  comprehension. 

LUATH. 

Trowth,  Caesar,  whiles  they're  fash't12  eneugh; 
A  cotter  howkin13  in  a  sheugh,14 
25          Wi'  dirty  stanes  biggin lfi  a  dyke,16 
Barin  a  quarry,  and  sic  like ; 

l  at  all.  2  farm  produce  paid  as  rent.  8  taxes.  *  stitches.  &  guinea 
peeps.  6  stuffing.  7  kitchen  people.  8  belly.  9  shrivelled-up 
wonder.  10  put.  n  stomach.  12  troubled.  ^  digging. 

14  ditch.  15  building.  w  wall 


REPRESENTATIVE   POEMS.  33 

Himsel,  a  wife,  he  thus  sustains, 
A  smytrie  o'  wee  duddie  weans,1 
And  nought  but  his  han'-daurg2  to  keep 
Them  right  and  tight  in  thack  and  rape.8 

And  when  they  meet  wi'  sair  disasters,  5 

Like  loss  o'  health  or  want  o'  masters, 
Ye  maist  wad  think,  a  wee  touch  langer, 
And  they  maun  starve  o'  cauld  and  hunger ; 
But  how  it  comes,  I  never  kenn'd  yet, 
They  're  maistly  wonderfu'  contented  :  10 

And  buirdly  chiels 4  an'  clever  hizzies fi 
Are  bred  in  sic  a  way  as  this  is. 

C^SAR. 

But  then  to  see  how  you  're  neglecket, 
How  hufFd  and  cufFd  and  disrespecket ! 
Lord,  man,  our  gentry  care  as  little  15 

For  delvers,  ditchers  and  sic  cattle ; 
They  gang  as  saucy  by  poor  folk, 
As  I  wad  by  a  stinkin  brock.6 

I  've  noticed,  on  our  Laird's  court-day,  —  7 
And  mony  a  time  my  heart 's  been  wae,  —  20 

Poor  tenant  bodies,  scant  o'  cash, 
How  they  maun  thole8  a  factor's  snash:9 
He  '11  stamp  and  threaten,  curse,  and  swear 
He  '11  apprehend  them,  poind 10  their  gear  ; u 

1  a  number  of  little  ragged  children.     2  single-handed  day's  labor.     3  thatch 
and  rope  to  bind  it,  i.e.,  "  the  necessaries  of  life."  4  stalwart  men. 

5  women.        6  badger.         7  The  factor  is  the  landlord's  agent,  to  whom 
on  court-day  the  tenants  pay  their  rent.  8  endure.  9  abuse. 

10  impound.  u  goods. 


34  POEMS  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

While  they  maun  stan'  wi'  aspect  humble, 
And  hear  it  a',  and  fear  and  tremble  ! 

I  see  how  folk  live  that  hae  riches ; 
But  surely  poor  folk  maun  be  wretches ! 

LUATH. 

•  5  They  're  no  sae  wretched  's  ane  wad  think : 

Tho'  constantly  on  poortith's l  brink, 
They  're  sae  accustom'd  wi'  the  sight, 
The  view  o  't  gies  them  little  fright. 

Then  chance  and  fortune  are  sae  guided, 
10          They  're  aye  in  less  or  mair  provided ; 

And  tho'  fatigu'd  wi'  close  employment, 
A  blink  o'  rest 's  a  sweet  enjoyment. 

The  dearest  comfort  o'  their  lives, 
Their  grushie  weans 2  and  faithfu'  wives ; 
15          The  prattling  things  are  just  their  "pride, 
That  sweetens  a'  their  fireside. 

And  whiles  twalpennie  worth  o'  nappy8 
Can  mak  the  bodies  unco 4  happy  : 
They  lay  aside  their  private  cares, 
20          To  mind  the  Kirk  and  State  affairs ; 
They'll  talk  o'  patronage  an'  priests, 
Wi'  kindling  fury  i'  their  breasts, 
Or  tell  what  new  taxation  's  comin, 
An'  ferlie5  at  the  folk  in  Lon'on. 

25  As  bleak-fac'd  Hallowmas  returns, 

They  get  the  jovial,  ranting  kirns,6 

1  poverty.  2  thriving  children.  8  ale.  4  very.  5  wonder. 

6  the  merry  harvest-home  rejoicings  •,  rustic  feasts- 


REPRESENTATIVE  POEMS.  35 

When  rural  life  o'  ev'ry  station 
Unite  in  common  recreation ; 
Love  blinks,  Wit  slaps,1  an'  social  Mirth 
Forgets  there 's  Care  upo'  the  earth. 

That  merry  day  the  year  begins,  5 

They  bar  the  door  on  frosty  winds ; 
The  nappy  reeks2  wi'  mantlin  ream3 
An'  sheds  a  heart-inspirin  steam ; 
The  luntin4  pipe  an'  sneeshin  mill5 
Are  handed  round  wi'  right  guid  will ;  10 

The  cantie  6  auld  folks  crackin  crouse,7 
The  young  anes  rantin 8  thro'  the  house,  — 
My  heart  has  been  sae  fain  to  see  them, 
That  I  for  joy  hae  barket  wi'  them. 

Still  it 's  owre  true  that  ye  hae  said,  15 

Sic  game  is  now  owre  aften  play'd. 
There 's  monie  a  creditable  stock 
O'  decent,  honest,  fawsont 9  folk 
Are  riven 10  out  baith  root  an'  branch, 
Some  rascal's  pridefu'  greed  to  quench,  20 

Wha  thinks  to  knit  himsel  the  faster 
In  favour  wi'  some  gentle  master,11 
Wha,  aiblins  thrang  a-parliamentin,12 
For  Britain's  guid  his  saul13  indentin  — 

CESAR. 

Haith,14  lad,  ye  little  ken  about  it ;  25 

For  Britain's  guid  !  guid  faith  !  I  doubt  it. 

'  shines  forth.  2  aie  smokes.  3  froth.  *  smoking.  6  snuffbox.  6  cheery. 
~<  talking  briskly.  8  frolicking.  9  seemly.  l<>torn.  n  master  of 
gentle  birth ;  the  laird.  The  rascal  is  the  factor.  *2  perhaps  busy  in 
Parliament.  w  soul.  "  faith. 


36  POEMS  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

Say  rather,  gaun l  as  Premiers  lead  him. 
An'  saying  ay  or  no 's  they  bid  him : 
At  operas  an'  plays  parading, 
Mortgaging,  gambling,  masquerading : 
5          Or  maybe,  in  a  frolic  daft,2 

To  Hague  or  Calais  taks  a  waft, 
To  mak  a  tour  an'  tak  a  whirl 
To  learn  bon  ton  an'  see  the  worl'. 

There,  at  Vienna  or  Versailles, 
10          He  rives  his  father's  auld  entails ; 8 

Or  by  Madrid  he  taks  the  rout 4 

To  thrum  guitars  an'  fecht5  wi'  nowt;6 

Or  down  Italian  vista  startles, 

Whore-hunting  amang  groves  o'  myrtles  ; 
15         Then  bouses  drumly  7  German-water, 

To  mak  himsel  look  fair  and  fatter, 

And  clear  the  consequential  sorrows, 

Love-gifts  of  Carnival  signoras. 

For  Britain's  guid  !  —  for  her  destruction  ! 
20          Wi'  dissipation,  feud,  and  faction. 

LUATH. 

Hech  man  !  dear  sirs !  is  that  the  gate 8 
They  waste  sae  mony  a  braw 9  estate  ? 
Are  we  sae  foughten 10  and  harass'd 
For  gear  n  to  gang  that  gate 12  at  last  ? 

1  going.  2  mad.  8  Entailed  real  estate  in  Britain  must  pass  to  the  next 
male  heir.  An  entail  can  be  broken  by  an  act  of  Parliament.  Burns 
here  refers,  says  Wallace,  to  an  extravagant  heir  who  would  rive  (liter- 
ally "tear")  the  entail  so  that  he  might  burden  the  estate  with  debt. 
4  road.  5  fight.  6  bullocks.  The  word  "  nowt "  [cattle,  neat]  takes 
all  the  romance  from  bull-fighting.  —  Dow.  7  drinks  muddy.  8  style. 
»  fine.  10  troubled.  U  wealth.  12  road. 


REPRESENTATIVE  POEMS.  37 

O  would  they  stay  aback  frae  courts 
An'  please  themsels  wi'  countra  sports, 
It  wad  for  ev'ry  ane  be  better, 
The  Laird,  the  Tenant,  an'  the  Cotter ! 
For  thae  frank,  rantin,  ramblin  billies,  5 

Fient  haet l  o'  them  's  ill-hearted  fellows : 
Except  for  breakin  o'  their  timmer,2 
Or  speakin  lightly  o'  their  limmer,3 
Or  shootin  o'  a  hare  or  moor-cock, 
The  ne'er-a-bit  they  're  ill  to  poor  folk.  10 

But  will  ye  tell  me,  Master  Caesar, 
Sure  great  folk's  life  's  a  life  o'  pleasure  ? 
Nae  cauld  nor  hunger  e'er  can  steer 4  them, 
The  vera  thought  o  't  need  na  fear  them. 

(LESAR. 

Lord,  man,  were  ye  but  whyles  whare  I  am,         15 
The  gentles  ye  wad  ne'er  envy  'em. 

It 's  true,  they  need  na  starve  or  sweat 
Thro'  winter's  cauld  or  simmer's  heat ; 
They  've  nae  sair  wark  to  craze  their  banes, 
An'  fill  auld  age  wi'  grips  an'  granes  : 6  20 

But  human  bodies  are  sic  fools, 
For  a'  their  colleges  and  schools, 
That  when  nae  real  ills  perplex  them, 
They  mak  enow  themselves  to  vex  them ; 
An'  ay  the  less  they  hae  to  sturt 6  them,  25 

In  like  proportion  less  will  hurt  them. 

A  country  fellow  at  the  pleugh, 
His  acres  till'd,  he  's  right  eneugh  ; 

1  not  a  bit.  2  cutting  down  their  timber.  8  hussy.  *  bother. 

5  groans.  6  trouble. 


38  POEMS  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

A  country  girl  at  her  wheel, 
Her  dizzens1  done,  she's  unco  weel: 
But  gentlemen,  an'  ladies  warst, 
Wi'  ev'n  down  want  o'  wark  are  curst. 
5          They  loiter,  loungin,  lank,  an'  lazy ; 
Tho'  deil-haet 2  ails  them,  yet  uneasy : 
Their  days  insipid,  dull,  an'  tasteless ; 
Their  nights  unquiet,  lang,  an'  restless; 

An'  ev'n  their  sports,  their  balls  an'  races, 
10          Their  galloping  thro'  public  places,  — 
There  's  sic  parade,  sic  pomp,  an'  art, 
The  joy  can  scarcely  reach  the  heart. 

The  men  cast  out  in  party-matches,8 
Then  sowther4  a'  in  deep  debauches. 
15          Ae  night,  they're  mad  wi'  drink  an'  whoring, 
Niest5  day  their  life  is  past  enduring. 

The  Ladies  arm-in-arm  in  clusters, 

As  great  an'  gracious  a'  as  sisters ; 

But  hear  their  absent  thoughts  o'  ither, 
20  They  're  a'  run  deils  an'  jads 6  thegither. 

Whiles,7  o'er  the  wee  bit  cup  and  platie, 

They  sip  the  scandal-potion  pretty ; 

Or  lee-lang8  nights,  wi'  crabbet9  leuks, 

Pore  owre  the  devil's  pictur'd  beuks  ; 10 
25  Stake  on  a  chance  a  farmer's  stackyard,11 

And  cheat  like  ony  unhang'd  blackguard. 

There's  some  exceptions,  man  an'  woman; 
But  this  is  gentry's  life  in  common. 

1 "  dozens  "  of  hanks  of  thread  to  be  wound  for  weaving. — Dow.  2  nothing. 
8  quarrel.  4  reconcile.  6  next.  6  downright  devils  and  wicked 
women.  1  sometimes.  8  livelong.  9  sour.  W  cards.  U  /.*.,  the 
value  of  a  whole  year's  crop.  —  Dow. 


REPRESENTATIVE  POEMS.  39 

By  this,  the  sun  was  out  o'  sight/ 
And  darker  gloaming  brought  the  night : 
The  bum-clock 1  humm'd  wi'  lazy  drone  ; 2 
The  kye 3  stood  rowtin 4  i'  the  loan  ;  5 
When  up  they  gat,  and  shook  their  lugs,6  5 

Rejoic'd  they  were  na  men  but  dogs ; 
And  each  took  aff  his  several  way, 
Resolv'd  to  meet  some  ither  day. 

Caesar  gave  the  cotter's  dog  considerable  enlightening 
information  —  enough,  one  would  think,  to  satisfy  him  that  10 
the  cotter's  lot  was  by  no  means  to  be  despised ;  but,  real 
dogs  as  they  are,  they  go  off  rejoicing  that  they  are  not 
men. 

That  Burns  gets  the  point  of  view  of  man,  beast,  or 
demon  ;  that  his  sympathy  is  boundless,  is  most  pointedly  15 
suggested  by  these  lines  to  the  deil : 

But  fare  you  weel,  auld  Nickie-ben! 
O  wad  ye  tak  a  thought  an'  men' ! 
Ye  aiblins  might —  I  dinna  ken  — 

Still  hae  a  stake  :  20 

I  'm  wae  to  think  upo'  yon  den, 

Ev'n  for  your  sake  ! 

In  1786  Burns  contracted  with  Jean  Armour  a  marriage 
which,  though  irregular,  he  considered  legal ;  but  her 
parents,  who  would  not  listen  to  the  union,  did  all  they  25 
could  to  keep  husband  and  wife  apart.  Burns  felt  dis- 
graced ;  it  was  a  critical  period  ;  painfully  conscious  of  his 
faults,  yet  keenly  alive  to  his  temptations,  he  felt  the  need 
of  pleading  his  own  cause  in  an 

1  beetle.  2  «  The  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight "  in  Gray's  Elegy, 
8  cows.  4  lowing.  5  '  Loan '  means  here  an  opening  between  fields  ol 
corn  near,  or  leading  to,  the  homestead,  where  cows  are  milked.  —  Wallace. 
6  ears. 


40  POEMS  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

ADDRESS    TO    THE    UNCO    GUID,    OR    THE 
RIGIDLY    RIGHTEOUS. 

My  son,  these  maxims  make  a  rule, 

And  lump  them  aye  thegither ; 
The  RIGID  RIGHTEOUS  is  a  fool, 

The  RIGID  WISE  anither: 
The  cleanest  corn  that  e'er  was  dight,1 

May  hae  some  pyles  o'  caff  in ; 2 
So  ne'er  a  fellow-creature  slight 

For  random  fits  o'  daffm.3  —  SOLOMON,  Eccles.  vii,  16. 

0  YE  wha  are  sae  guid  yoursel, 
Sae  pious  and  sae  holy, 

Ye  've  nought  to  do  but  mark  and  tell 

Your  neibour's  fauts  and  folly  ! 
5  Whase  life  is  like  a  well-gaun  mill, 

Supply'd  wi'  store  o'  water, 
The  heapet  happer  's  4  ebbing  still, 

And  still  the  clap  plays  clatter,  — 

Here  me,  ye  venerable  core,5 
10  As  counsel  for  poor  mortals, 

That  frequent  pass  douce 6  Wisdom's  door 
For  glaiket 7  Folly's  portals  ; 

1  for  their  thoughtless,  careless  sakes 
Would  here  propone  defences  — 

15  Their  donsie8  tricks,  their  black  mistakes, 

Their  failings  and  mischances. 

Ye  see  your  state  wi'  theirs  compar'd, 

And  shudder  at  the  nirfer ; 9 
But  cast  a  moment's  fair  regard, 
20  What  maks  the  mighty  differ  ? 

1  thrashed.       2  grains  of  chaff.        8  merriment,  folly.        4  hopper.        5  folk 
6  grave.        7  giddy.        8  wicked.        9  exchange. 


REPRESENTA  TIVE   POEMS.  41 

Discount  what  scant  occasion  gave, 

That  purity  ye  pride  in, 
And  (what 's  aft  mair  than  a'  the  lave l) 

Your  better  art  o'  hidin. 

Think,  when  your  castigated  pulse  5 

Gies  now  and  then  a  wallop,2 
What  ragings  must  his  veins  convulse 

That  still  eternal  gallop  : 
Wi'  wind  and  tide  fair  i'  your  tail, 

Right  on  ye  scud  your  sea-way;  10 

But  in  the  teeth  o'  baith  to  sail, 

It  maks  an  unco3  leeway. 

See  Social  Life  and  Glee  sit  down, 

All  joyous  and  unthinking, 
Till,  quite  transmugrify'd,  they're  grown  15 

Debauchery  and  Drinking  : 
O  would  they  stay  to  calculate 

Th'  eternal  consequences ; 
Or  —  your  more  dreaded  hell  to  state  — 

Damnation  of  expenses  I  20 

Ye  high,  exalted,  virtuous  Dames, 

Tied  up  in  godly  laces, 
Before  you  gie  poor  Frailty  names, 

Suppose  a  change  o'  cases  : 
A  dear  lov'd  lad,  convenience  snug,  25 

A  treacherous  inclination  — 
But,  let  me  whisper  i'  your  lug,4 

Ye  're  aiblins 5  nae  temptation. 

Then  gently  scan  your  brother  man, 

Still  gentler  sister  woman  ;  3° 

1  rest.      2  quick,  agitated  movement.      8  unusual.     *  ear.     6  perhaps. 


42  POEMS  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

Tho'  they  may  gang  a  kennin L  wrang, 

To  step  aside  is  human  : 
One  point  must  still  be  greatly  dark, 

The  moving  Why  they  do  it ; 
5  And  just  as  lamely  can  ye  mark, 

How  far  perhaps  they  rue  it. 

Who  made  the  heart,  't  is  He  alone 

Decidedly  can  try  us, 
He  knows  each  chord,  its  various  tone, 
10  Each  spring,  its  various  bias  : 

Then  at  the  balance,  let 's  be  mute, 

We  never  can  adjust  it ; 
What 's  done  we  partly  can  compute, 

But  know  not  what 's  resisted. 

15  Has  he  not  stated  the  case  so  well  that  we  do  not  need 
to  speak  in  his  behalf  ? 

Those  of  us  who  are  in  the  habit  of  thinking  we  are 
"  unco  guid  "  may  well  consider  that  we  are  somewhat 
"indebted  to  the  world's  good  opinion  because  the  world 

20  does  not  know  all."  Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  whose  plain 
statements  of  disagreeable  truths  about  Burns  never  sug- 
gest that  he  is  winking  at  weaknesses,  says :  "  Alas  !  I 
fear  every  man  and  woman  of  us  is  *  greatly  dark '  to  all 
their  neighbours,  from  the  day  of  birth  until  death  re- 

25  moves  them,  in  their  greatest  virtues  as  well  as  in  their 
saddest  faults  ;  and  we,  who  have  been  trying  to  read  the 
character  of  Burns,  may  take  home  the  lesson  and  be 
gentle  in  our  thoughts." 

Ewe,  mare,  dog  and  field-mouse  had  in  turn  been  cele- 

30  brated  by  the  poet.    That  he  should  recognize  the  louse  as 

i  a  little  bit. 


REPRESENTATIVE  POEMS.  43 

a  fit  subject  for  verse  has  distressed  some  persons,  but  one 
needs  the  entire  poem  in  order  to  appreciate  the  immortal 
last  stanza. 

TO   A    LOUSE. 

ON    SEEING    ONE    ON    A    LADY'S    BONNET   AT    CHURCH. 

HA  !  whaur  ye  gaun,  ye  crowlin'  ferlie  ! l 

Your  impudence  protects  you  sairlie  ; 2  5 

I  canna  say  but  ye  strunt3  rarely 

Owre  gauze  and  lace  ; 
Tho'  faith !  I  fear  ye  dine  but  sparely 

On  sic  a  place. 

Ye  ugly,  creepin',  blastet  wonner,4  10 

Detested,  shunn'd  by  saunt  an'  sinner, 
How  daur  ye  set  your  fit 5  upon  her, 

Sae  fine  a  lady  ? 
Gae  somewhere  else  and  seek  your  dinner 

On  some  poor  body.  15 

Swith  ! 6  in  some  beggar's  hauffet 7  squattle,8 
Wi'  ither  kindred,  jumping  cattle, 
.  There  ye  may  creep,  an'  sprawl,  an'  sprattle,9 

In  shoals  and  nations  ; 
Whaur  horn  10  or  bane  ne'er  dare  unsettle  20 

Your  thick  plantations. 

Now  haud  you  there,  ye  're  out  o'  sight, 
Below  the  fatt'rells,11  snug  an'  tight ; 
Na,  faith  ye  yet  !  ye  '11  no  be  right 

l  Where  are  you  going,  you  crawling  wonder  ?  2  marvellously.  8  strut. 
4  blasted  wonder.  5  foot.  6  begone !  7  side  of  the  head.  8  sprawl 
9  scramble.  10  comb.  n  ribbon  ends. 


44  POEMS   OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

Till  ye  've  got  on  it  — 
The  vera  tapmost,  towrin'  height 
O'  Miss's  bonnet. 

My  sooth  !  right  bauld 1  ye  set  your  nose  out, 
5  As  plump  an'  grey  as  ony  groset : 2 

0  for  some  rank,  mercurial  rozet,3 

Or  fell,  red  smeddum,4 

1  'd  gie  ye  sic  a  hearty  dose  o  't, 

Wad  dress  your  droddum  !6 

10  I  wad  na  been  surpris'd  to  spy 

You  on  an  auld  wife's  flannen  toy ; 6 
Or  aiblins7  some  bit  duddie8  boy, 

On  's  wyliecoat ; 9 
But  Miss's  fine  Lunardi ! 10  fye  1 

15  How  daur  ye  do 't  ? 

O  Jeany,  dinna  toss  your  head, 
An'  set  your  beauties  a'  abreid  !  u 
Ye  little  ken  what  cursed  speed 

The  blastie  's  12  makin' : 
20  Thae  winks  an'  finger-ends,  I  dread, 

Are  notice  takin.13 

fO  wad  some  Power  the  giftie  gie  us 
To  see  oursels  as  ithers  see  us ! 
It  wad  frae  mony  a  blunder  free  us, 
25  An'  foolish  notion  : 

What  airs  in  dress  an'  gait  wad  lea'e  us, 
And  ev'n  devotion  ! 

1  bold.  2  gooseberry.  3  rosin.  4  powder.  5  breech.  6  old-fashioned  cap. 
7  perhaps.  8  little  ragged.  9  flannel  vest.  10  balloon-shaped  bonnet. 
H  abroad.  12  as  in  the  second  stanza,  a  term  of  contempt ;  strictly, 

"  withered  dwarf."  13  "  I  fear,  from  the  way  folk  are  winking  and 

pointing  in  your  direction,  that  they  see  what  is  the  matter." — Wallace. 


REPRESENTATIVE  POEMS.  45 

Of  course  a  man  who  habitually  went  out  into  the  fields 
to  compose  his  poetry  could  not  ignore  inanimate  nature. 
If  the  subject  of  the  following  verses  calls  to  mind  Words- 
worth's poems  to  the  daisy  and  other  flowers,  we  should 
remember  that  the  Scottish  plowman  sang  to  his  daisy  5 
first. 

. 
TO   A    MOUNTAIN    DAISY, 

ON  TURNING  ONE  DOWN  WITH   THE  PLOUGH,  IN  APRIL,  1786. 

WEE,  modest,  crimson-tipped  flow'r, 
Thou 's  met  me  in  an  evil  hour ; 
For  I  maun  crush  amang  the  stoure l 

Thy  slender  stem  :  10 

To  spare  thee  now  is  past  my  pow'r, 

Thou  bonie  gem. 

Alas  !  it 's  no  thy  neibor  sweet, 

The  bonie  lark,  companion  meet, 

Bending  thee  'mang  the  dewy  weet2  15 

Wi'  spreckl'd  breast, 
When  upward-springing,  blythe,  to  greet 

The  purpling  east. 

Cauld  blew  the  bitter-biting  north 

Upon  thy  early,  humble  birth  ;  20 

Yet  cheerfully  thou  glinted  forth 

Amid  the  storm, 
Scarce  rear'd  above  the  parent-earth 

Thy  tender  form. 

The  flaunting  flowers  our  gardens  yield  25 

High  shelt'ring  woods  an'  wa's3  maun  shield: 

l  dust.        2  wet.        8  walls. 


46  POEMS  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

But  thou,  beneath  the  random  bield1 
O'  clod  or  stane, 

Adorns  the  histie  2  stibble  3-field 
Unseen,  alane. 

5  There,  in  thy  scanty  mantle  clad, 

Thy  snawie4  bosom  sun-ward  spread, 
Thou  lifts  thy  unassuming  head 

In  humble  guise ; 

But  now  the  share  uptears  thy  bed, 
to  And  low  thou  lies  ! 

Such  is  the  fate  of  artless  maid, 
Sweet  flow'ret  of  the  rural  shade  ! 
By  love's  simplicity  betray'd 

And  guileless  trust ; 
15  Till  she,  like  thee,  all  soil'd,  is  laid 

Low  i'  the  dust. 

Such  is  the  fate  of  simple  bard, 
On  life's  rough  ocean  luckless  starred  I 
Unskilful  he  to  note  the  card 5 
20  Of  prudent  lore, 

Till  billows  rage  and  gales  blow  hard, 

And  whelm  him  o'er  I 

Such  fate  to  suffering  Worth  is  giv'n, 
Who  long  with  wants  and  woes  has  striv'n, 
25  By  human  pride  or  cunning  driv'n 

To  mis'ry's  brink ; 
Till,  wrench'd  of  ev'ry  stay  but  Heav'n, 

He  ruin'd  sink ! 

l  shelter.        2  barren.         8  stubble.         *  snowy.          6  chart.    "  Reason  the 
card,  but  passion  is  the  gale."  — Pope. 


REPRESENTATIVE  POEMS.  47 

Ev'n  thou  who  mourn'st  the  Daisy's  fate, 
That  fate  is  thine  —  no  distant  date ; 
Stern  Ruin's  ploughshare  drives  elate, 

Full  on  thy  bloom, 
Till  crush'd  beneath  the  furrow's  weight  3 

Shall  be  thy  doom. 

Burns  was  having  a  hard  fight.  The  Mossgiel  farming 
had  proved  a  failure.  It  looked  as  if  Jean  had  deserted 
him  once  for  all  and  as  if  the  marriage  was  annulled.  With 
wounded  pride  he  looked  for  'another  wife'  and  soon  10 
won  the  heart  of  Mary  Campbell,  of  whom  we  know 
through  tradition  only.  (See  "  Highland  Mary  "  and  "  To 
Mary  in  Heaven.")  This  year,  too,  Burns  had  been 
censured  by  the  kirk.  The  result  was  his  satires  on  the 
Auld  Licht  clergy,  which  in  turn  met  with  local  favor  15 
enough  to  encourage  him  to  continue  his  writing.  It 
seemed  best  to  leave  Scotland  for  the  Indies,  and  he 
published  a  collection  of  poems  to  pay  the  expenses  of 
the  journey.  The  last  poem  in  the  volume  speaks  for 
itself  as  a  revelation  of  the  poet's  heart  of  hearts  :  20 

A   BARD'S    EPITAPH. 

Is  there  a  whim-inspired  fool, 

Owre  fast  for  thought,  owre  hot  for  rule, 

Owre  blate 1  to  seek,  owre  proud  to  snool  ? 2 — 

Let  him  draw  near ; 
And  owre  this  grassy  heap  sing  dool,8  25 

And  drap  a  tear. 

Is  there  a  bard  of  rustic  song 

Who,  noteless,  steals  the  crowds  among, 

l  bashful.        2  submit  tamely.        8  lament. 


48  POEMS  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

That  weekly  this  area  throng  ?  — 

Oh,  pass  not  by ! 
But  with  a  frater-feeling  strong, 

Here  heave  a  sigh. 

5  Is  there  a  man  whose  judgment  clear 

Can  others  teach  the  course  to  steer, 
Yet  runs  himself  life's  mad  career 

Wild  as  the  wave  ?  — 
Here  pause  —  and,  thro'  the  starting  tear 
10  Survey  this  grave. 

The  poor  inhabitant  below 

Was  quick  to  learn  and  wise  to  know, 

And  keenly  felt  the  friendly  glow, 

And  softer  flame ; 
15  But  thoughtless  follies  laid  him  low, 

And  stain'd  his  name  ! 

Reader,  attend !  whether  thy  soul 
Soars  fancy's  flights  beyond  the  pole, 
Or  darkling  grubs  this  earthly  hole 
20  In  low  pursuit ;  *\ 

Know,  prudent,  cautious  self-control  ) 
Is  wisdom's  root  / 

After  a  man  has  written  such  an  epitaph  for  himself  — 

so  frankly  disclosing  and  confessing  his  faults  —  it  would 

25  seem  to  be  in  good  taste  for  the  critics  to  save  their 

severest   condemnation  for  one  who   is  not   so  keenly 

sensible  of  his  shortcomings. 

Soon  afterward  Burns  met  for  the  first  time  a  member  of 

the  British  aristocracy.    Lord  Daer  so  pleasantly  surprised 

30  him  that  he  at  once  acknowledged  the  unexpected  in  the 


REPRESENTATIVE  POEMS. 


LINES    ON   AN    INTERVIEW   WITH    LORD    DAER. 

THIS  wot  ye  all  whom  it  concerns, 
I,  Rhymer  Robin,  alias  Burns, 

October  twenty-third, 
A  ne'er-to-be-forgotten  day, 
Sae  far  I  sprachled l  up  the  brae,2  5 

I  dinner'd  wi'  a  Lord. 

I  've  been  at  drucken  8  writers'  feasts, 
Nay,  been  bitch-fou  'mang  godly  priests  — 

Wi'  rev'rence  be  it  spoken !  — 

I  Ve  even  join'd  the  honour'd  jorum,4  10 

When  mighty  Squireships  of  the  Quorum5 

Their  hydra  drouth 6  did  sloken.7 

But  wi'  a  Lord  —  stand  out  my  shin  ! 8 
A  Lord  —  a  Peer  —  an  Earl's  son  1 

Up  higher  yet,  my  bonnet  !  15 

And  sic  a  Lord  —  lang  Scotch  ells  twa,9 
Our  Peerage  he  o'erlooks  them  a', 

As  I  look  owre  my  sonnet. 

But  O  for  Hogarth's  magic  pow'r 

To  show  Sir  Bardie's  willyart  glow'r,10  20 

And  how  he  star'd  and  stammer'd, 
When  goavan,11  as  if  led  wi'  branks,12 
An'  stumpin  on  his  ploughman  shanks, 

He  in  the  parlor  hammer'd  ! 

1  scrambled.  2  hill.  8  drunken.  4  punch-bowl.  6  some  board  or  com- 
mittee representing  the  country  gentlemen  of  Ayrshire. —  Wallace. 
6  thirst.  7  slake.  8  as  in  a  pompous  stage-strut.  —  Dow.  9  six  feet 
tall.  10  bewildered  gaze,  u  staring  stupidly.  12  bridle. 


50  POEMS^OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

I  sidling  shelter'd  in  a  nook, 
An'  at  his  Lordship  steal't  a  look, 

Like  some  portentous  omen ; 
Except  good  sense  and  social  glee, 
5  An'  (what  surprised  me)  modesty, 

I  marked  nought  uncommon. 

I  watch'd  the  symptoms  o'  the  great, 
The  gentle  pride,  the  lordly  state, 

The  arrogant  assuming  :^_ 
10          tThe  fient  a  pride,  nae  pride  had  lie/} 
Nor  sauce  nor  state  that  I  could  see, 

Mair  than  an  honest  ploughman. 

Then  from  his  lordship  I  shall  learn, 
Henceforth  to  meet  with  unconcern 
15  One  rank  as  weel  's  another : 

(Nae  honest  worthy  man  need  care 
To  meet  with  noble  youthful  Daer, 

For  he  but  meets  a  brother?) 


The  first  volume  was  welcomed  so  heartily  that  Burns 
20  decided  to  remain  on  old  Scotia's  shores.  He  had 
attracted  attention  enough  to  make  him  more  ambitious 
than  ever  for  distinction  as  a  poet ;  he  must  go  to  Edin- 
burgh. A  few  days  before  starting  he  sent  these  lines 
to  a  gentleman  in  Ayr : 

1 '  Devil  a  bit  of  pride  had  he.' 


REPRESENTATIVE  POEMS. 


A   WINTER    NIGHT. 

Poor  naked  wretches,  wheresoe'er  you  are, 
That  bide  the  pelting  of  this  pitiless  storm! 
How  shall  your  houseless  heads  and  unfed  sides, 
Your  loop'd  and  window'd  raggedness,  defend  you 

From  seasons  such  as  these  ? 

SHAKESPEARE. 

WHEN  biting  Boreas,  fell l  and  doure,2 
Sharp  shivers  thro*  the  leafless  bow'r ; 
When  Phoebus  gies  a  short  lived  glow'r3 

Far  south  the  lift,4 
Dim-darkening  thro'  the  flaky  show'r  5 

Or  whirling  drift ; 

Ae  night  the  storm  the  steeples  rocked, 
Poor  Labour  sweet  in  sleep  was  locked, 
While  burns,6  wi'  snawy  wreaths  up-choked, 

Wild-eddying  swirl,  10 

Or,  thro*  the  mining  outlet  bocked,6 

Down  headlong  hurl : 

Listening  the  doors  and  winnocks 7  rattle, 
fl  thought  me  on  the  ourie 8  cattle, 
Or  silly9  sheep,  wha  bide  this  brattle10  15 

O'  winter  war^l 
An'  through  the  drift,  deep-lairing,11  sprattle12 

Beneath  a  scaur.13 

Ilk  happin14  bird — wee,  helpless  thingjj— 
That  in  the  merry  months  o'  spring  20 

Delighted  me  to  hear  thee  sing, 
What  comes  o'  thee  ? 

1  keen.  2  stubborn.  3  stare.  4  sky.  5  brooks.  6  belched.  1  windows. 
8  shivering.  9  helpless.  10  pelting.  n  sinking-  deep.  12  scramble. 
13  cliff.  l*  hopping. 


52  POEMS   OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

Whare  wilt  thou  cow'r  thy  chittering l  wing 
An'  close  thy  ee  ? 

Ev'n  you  on  murd'ring  errands  toil'd, 
Lone  from  your  savage  homes  exil'd,  — 
5      The  blood-stain'd  roost  an'  sheep-cot  spoilM 

My  heart  forgets, 
While  pitiless  the  tempest  wild 

Sore  on  you  beats. 

Now  Phcebe,2  in  her  midnight  reign, 
10      Dark  muffled,  viewed  the  dreary  plain  ; 
Still  crowding  thoughts,  a  pensive  train, 

Rose  in  my  soul, 
When  on  my  ear  this  plaintive  strain, 

Slow-solemn,  stole :  — 

15      "  Blow,  blow  ye  winds  with  heavier  gust  I 
And  freeze,  thou  bitter-biting  frost ! 
Descend,  ye  chilly,  smothering  snows  ! 
Not  all  your  rage,  as  now  united,  shows 

More  hard  unkindness,  unrelenting, 
20          Vengeful  malice,  unrepenting, 

Than  heaven-illumined  man  on  brother  man  bestows  1 8 

"  See  stern  Oppression's  iron  grip, 

Or  mad  Ambition's  gory  hand, 
Sending,  like  blood-hounds  from  the  slip, 
25          Woe,  Want,  and  Murder  o'er  a  land  ! 

l  shivering.  2  the  moon. 

3  Cf.  Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind, 
Thou  art  not  so  unkind 

As  man's  ing-atitude  ; .  . . 
Freeze,  freeze,  thou  bitter  sky, 
That  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 

As  benefits  forgot.  —  As  You  Like  It,  II:  7. 


REPRESENTATIVE  POEMS.  53 

Ev'n  in  the  peaceful  rural  vale, 

Truth,  weeping,  tells  the  mournful  tale : 
How  pamper'd  Luxury,  Flatt'ry  by  her  side, 

The  parasite  empoisoning  her  ear, 

With  all  the  servile  wretches  in  the  rear,  $ 

Looks  o'er  proud  Property,  extended  wide ; 

And  eyes  the  simple,  rustic  hind, 

Whose  toil  upholds  the  glitt'ring  show  — 

A  creature  of  another  kind, 

Some  coarser  substance,  unrefin'd —  10 

Plac'd  for  her  lordly  use,  thus  far,  thus  vile,  below ! 

"  Where,  where  is  Love's  fond,  tender  throe, 
With  lordly  Honour's  lofty  brow, 

The  pow'rs  you  proudly  own  ? 

Is  there,  beneath  Love's  noble  name,  15 

Can  harbour,  dark,  the  selfish  aim, 

To  bless  himself  alone  ? 
Mark  Maiden-Innocence  a  prey 

To  love-pretending  snares : 

This  boasted  Honour  turns  away,  20 

Shunning  soft  Pity's  rising  sway, 
Regardless  of  the  tears  and  unavailing  pray'rs ! 
Perhaps  this  hour,  in  Misery's  squalid  nest, 
She  strains  your  infant  to  her  joyless  breast, 
And  with  a  mother's  fears  shrinks  at  the  rocking  blast !     25 

"  O  ye  !  who,  sunk  in  beds  of  down, 

Feel  not  a  want  but  what  yourselves  create, 
Think,  for  a  moment,  on  his  wretched  fate, 

Whom  friends  and  fortune  quite  disown  1 

Ill-satisfy'd  keen  nature's  clam'rous  call,  3° 

Stretched  on  his  straw,  he  lays  himself  to  sleep ; 
While  through  the  ragged  roof  and  chinky  wall, 


54  POEMS  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

Chill,  o'er  his  slumbers  piles  the  drifty  heap ! 
Think  on  the  dungeon's  grim  confine, 
Where  Guilt  and  poor  Misfortune  pine ! 
Guilt,  erring  man,  relenting  view  ! 
5         But  shall  thy  legal  rage  pursue 
The  wretch,  already  crushed  low 
By  cruel  Fortune's  undeserved  blow  ? 
Affliction's  sons  are  brothers  in  distress  ;      \ 
(A  brother  to  relieve,  how  exquisite  the  bliss  Ij 

10      I  heard  nae  mair,  for  chanticleer 
Shook  off  the  pouthery l  snaw, 
And  hailed  the  morning  with  a  cheer  — 
A  cottage-rousing  craw. 

But  deep  this  truth  impress'd  my  mind  — 
15          Through  all  His  works  abroad, 
The  heart  benevolent  and  kind 
The  most  resembles  Goo.2 

The  difference  between  the  Scottish  and  the  English 
portions  of  the  poem  is  striking.     This  is  "the  voice  of 
20  Mercy  herself,"  says  Carlyle. 

It  was  on  the  28th  of  November,  1786,  that  Burns 
reached  Edinburgh  and  began  his  triumphal  winter.  The 
following  summer  he  traveled  in  Scotland  ;  the  Highlands 
set  him  to  singing.  One  of  these  songs  is 

THE    BANKS    OF    THE    DEVON. 

25  How  pleasant  the  banks  of  the  clear  winding  Devon, 

With  green  spreading  bushes,  and  flowers  blooming  fair  f 

i  powdery.  2  cf.  "  He  prayeth  best  who  loveth  best "  etc. 

—  Ancient  Mariner. 


REPRESENTATIVE  POEMS.  55 

But  the  boniest  flower  on  the  banks  of  the  Devon 
Was  once  a  sweet  bud  on  the  braes l  of  the  Ayr.2 

Mild  be  the  sun  on  this  sweet  blushing  flower, 
In  the  gay  rosy  morn  as  it  bathes  in  the  dew ; 

And  gentle  the  fall  of  the  soft  vernal  shower,  5 

That  steals  on  the  evening  each  leaf  to  renew. 

0  spare  the  dear  blossom,  ye  orient  breezes, 
With  chill  hoary  wing  as  ye  usher  the  dawn  ! 

And  far  be  thou  distant,  thou  reptile  that  seizes 

The  verdure  and  pride  of  the  garden  and  lawn !  10 

Let  Bourbon  exult  in  his  gay  gilded  lilies, 

And  England,  triumphant,  display  her  proud  rose ; 

A  fairer  than  either  adorns  the  green  valleys, 
Where  Devon,  sweet  Devon,  meandering  flows. 

In  a  letter  to  Miss  Chalmers,  Burns  says:  "The  air  15 
is  admirable  :  true  old  Highland.     It  was  the  tune  of  a 
Gaelic  song  which  an  Inverness  lady  sang  me  when  I 
was   there.  ...     I  won't   say  the   poetry   is   first-rate ; 
though  I  am  convinced  it  is  very  well :  and  what  is  not 
always  the  case  with  compliments  to  ladies,  it  is  not  only  20 
sincere  but  just." 

Another  song  which  was  a  direct  outcome  of  the  High- 
land tour  is 

M'PHERSON'S    FAREWELL. 

.   FAREWELL,  ye  dungeons  dark  and  strong, 

The  wretch's  destinie  !  25 

M'Pherson's  time  will  not  be  long 
On  yonder  gallows  tree. 

1  Slopes.     2  "  Miss  Charlotte  Hamilton  .  .  .  was  born  on  the  banks  of  the  Ayr, 

but  was,  at  the  time  I  wrote  these  lines,  residing  at  Harvieston,  on  the 
romantic  banks  of  the  little  river  Devon."  —  B. 


56  POEMS   OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

CHORUS.  —  Sae  rantinly,  sae  wantonly, 

Sae  dauntinly  gaed  he  ; 
He  play'd  a  spring l  and  danc'd  it  round. 
Below  the  gallows  tree. 

5  O  what  is  death  but  parting  breath  ?  — 

On  monie  a  bloody  plain 
I  Ve  dar'd  his  face,  and  in  this  place 
I  scorn  him  yet  again  ! 

Untie  these  bands  from  off  my  hands 
10  And  bring  to  me  my  sword, 

And  there  's  no  man  in  all  Scotland, 
But  I  '11  brave  him  at  a  word. 

I  've  liv'd  a  life  of  sturt2  and  strife  ; 

I  die  by  treacherie  : 

15  It  burns  my  heart  I  must  depart 

And  not  avenged  be. 

Now  farewell  light,  thou  sunshine  bright, 

And  all  beneath  the  sky  ! 
May  coward  shame  distain  8  his  name, 
20  The  wretch  that  dare  not  die  ! 

James  M'Pherson,  a  freebooter,  who  with  his  Gypsy 

followers  terrified  the  Counties  of  Aberdeen,  Moray,  and 

Banff,  was  finally  seized  and  condemned  to  be  hanged. 

While  in  prison,  it  is  said,  he  composed  the  wild  air  which 

25  prompted  Burns  to  write  this  song. 

The  next  winter,  which  was  spent  in  Edinburgh,  the 
worshipers  were  fewer  and  some  of  them  far  less  en- 
thusiastic. In  the  spring  Burns  leased  a  poor  farm  at 

l  piece  of  dance  music.        2  trouble.        8  stain. 


REPRESENTATIVE  POEMS.  57 

Ellisland,  and  was  regularly  married  to  Jean  Armour. 
While  she  was  visiting  his  mother  and  sisters  at  Mossgiel 
and  learning  how  to  do  her  part  of  the  work  on  the  new 
farm,  he  was  preparing  the  home.  Meantime  this  is  his 
song  to  her  :  5 

OF   A'    THE   AIRTS    THE    WIND    CAN    BLAW. 

OF  a'  the  airts *  the  wind  can  blaw 

I  dearly  like  the  west, 
For  there  the  bonie  lassie  lives, 

The  lassie  I  lo'e  best : 
There 's  wild  woods  grow  an'  rivers  row,2  10 

An'  mony  a  hill  between  ; 
But  day  and  night  my  fancy's  flight 

Is  ever  wi'  my  Jean. 

I  see  her  in  the  dewy  flow'rs, 

I  see  her  sweet  an'  fair :  15 

I  hear  her  in  the  tunefu'  birds, 

I  hear  her  charm  the  air  : 
There  's  not  a  bonie  flow'r  that  springs 

By  fountain,  shaw,3  or  green  ; 
There  's  not  a  bonie  bird  that  sings,  20 

But  minds  me  o'  my  Jean. 

And  who,  with  or  without  an  ear  for  music,  does  not 
like  such  singing? 

Again  winter  had  come,  and  it  had  brought 'Jean.     As 
farmer  and  exciseman  Burns  struggled  on.     He  sent  Mrs.  25 
Dunlop 

1  directions.        2  roll.        3  W0od. 


58  POEMS  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


AULD    LANG    SYNE. 

SHOULD  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot. 

And  never  brought  to  min'  ? 
Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, 

And  auld  lang  syne  ? 

5   CHORUS. — For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear, 

For  auld  lang  syne, 
We  '11  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet 
For  auld  lang  syne. 

And  surely  ye  '11  be  your  pint-stowp,1 
10  And  surely  I  '11  be  mine  ! 

And  we  '11  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet 
For  auld  lang  syne. 

We  twa  hae  run  about  the  braes, 

And  pu'd  the  gowans  fine ; 2 

15  But  we  've  wander'd  mony  a  weary  fit8 

Sin'  auld  lang  syne. 

We  twa  hae  paidPt4  i'  the  burn/ 

From  morn  in'  sun  till  dine  ;  6 
But  seas  between  us  braid 7  hae  roar'd 
20  Sin'  auld  lang  syne. 

And  there  's  a  hand,  my  trusty  fier,8 

And  gie  's  a  hand  o'  thine ; 
And  we  '11  tak  a  right  guid-willie  waught 9 

For  auld  lang  syne. 

25  It  is  the  favorite  song  at  reunions  among  the  Scots< 
Although  there  are  several  versions  of  it,  Burns's  work 
is  conspicuous  in  his  third  and  fourth  stanzas. 

1  drinking  vessel.        2  pulled  daisies.         8  foot.         4  paddled.         5  brook. 
6  dinner-time.        7  broad.        8  comrade.        9  friendly  draught. 


REPRESENTATIVE  POEMS.  59 

In  this  connection  it  ought  to  be  said  that  we  are  in- 
debted to  him  for  improving  many  an  old  song.  One  to 
which  his  re-working  gave  purity,  life,  and  beauty  is 

JOHN    ANDERSON    MY   JO. 

JOHN  ANDERSON  my  jo,1  John, 

When  we  were  first  acquent,  5 

Your  locks  were  like  the  raven, 

Your  bonie 2  brow  was  brent ; 
But  now  your  brow  is  beld,3  John, 

Your  locks  are  like  the  snaw ; 
But  blessings  on  your  frosty  pow,4  10 

John  Anderson  my  jo. 

John  Anderson  my  jo,  John, 

We  clamb  the  hill  thegither  ; 
And  monie  a  canty5  day,  John, 

We  've  had  wi'  ane  anither  :  15 

Now  we  maun  totter  down,  John, 

And  hand  in  hand  we  '11  go, 
And  sleep  thegither  at  the  foot, 

John  Anderson  my  jo. 

The  story  of  two  long   lives  is  told  so  briefly  that  a  20 
hasty  glance  is  not  likely  to  reveal  the  perfection  of  the 
little  gem.     As  with  the  man  John  Anderson,  acquaint- 
ance increases  the  liking. 

In   the   illustration   which    accompanied   the   song  in 
Thomson's  work  "the  old  couple  are  seated  by  the  fire-  25 
side,  the  gude-wife  in  great  good  humor  is  clapping  John's 
shoulder,  while  he  smiles  and  looks  at  her  with  such  glee 
as  to  show  that  he  fully  recollects  the  pleasant  days  when 

l  sweetheart.       2  high  and  straight.       s  bald.       4  head.       6  happy. 


60  POEMS  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

they  were  '  first  acquent. ' "  [Letter  of  Thomson  to  Burns, 
*793-]  On  tne  other  hand,  Mr.  Wallace  says:  "The 
pathos  of  life's  evening  will  never  find  a  happier  or 
fuller  expression."  To  me  the  poem  does  not  suggest 
5  "great  good  humor,"  nor  is  the  keynote  pathos.  Some 
of  the  lines  may  not  be  free  from  pathos,  but  the  touch 
only  heightens  the  happiness.  It  is  thoughtful,  serene, 
supreme  happiness. 

The   air   of   the    next    song   was    Masterton's,    Burns 

10  says  ;  the  song,  his.  "The  occasion  of  it,"  he  adds,  "was 
this :  Mr.  William  Nicol,  of  the  High  School,  Edinburgh, 
during  the  autumn  vacation  being  at  Moffat,  honest  Allan 
[Masterton]  and  I  went  to  pay  Nicol  a  visit.  We  had 
such  a  joyous  meeting  that  Mr.  Masterton  and  I  agreed, 

15  each  in  our  own  way,  that  we  should  celebrate  the 
business." 


WILLIE   BREWED    A   PECK   O'   MAUT. 

O,  WILLIE  brew'd  a  peck  o'  maut,1 

An'  Rob  an'  Allan  cam  to  see : 
Three  blyther  hearts  that  lee-lang  night 
20  Ye  wad  na  found  in  Christendie. 

CHORUS. — We  are  na  fou,  we're  nae  that  fou,2 

But  just  a  drappie3  in  our  ee;4 
The  cock  may  craw,  the  day  may  daw,5 
And  aye  we  '11  taste  the  barley  bree.6 

25  Here  are  we  met,  three  merry  boys, 

Three  merry  boys,  I  trow,  are  we ; 
An'  mony  a  night  we  've  merry  been, 
An  mony  mae7  we  hope  to  be ! 

1  malt.        2  full.        8  drop.        4  eye.        6  dawn.        6  liquor.        1  more. 


REPRESENTATIVE   POEMS.  61 

It  is  the  moon,  I  ken  her  horn, 

That 's  blinkin l  in  the  lift 2  sae  hie ; 8 

She  shines  sae  bright  to  wile  us  hame, 
But,  by  my  sooth,  she  '11  wait  a  wee ! 

Wha  first  shall  rise  to  gang  awa',  5 

A  cuckold,  coward  loon 4  is  he  ! 
Wha  first  beside  his  chair  shall  fa', 

He  is  the  king  amang  us  three ! 

The  following  stanzas  were  written  to  Mary  Campbell, 
whose  lover  he  had  become  three  years  before.5  The  10 
third  anniversary  of  her  death  saddened  him.  He  spent 
most  of  the  cold  night  wandering  on  the  banks  of  the  Nith 
and  about  his  farmyard.  Lockhart,  in  reporting  a  state- 
ment made  by  Jean  Burns  to  a  friend,  says  his  wife  finally 
found  him  "stretched  on  a  mass  of  straw  with  his  eyes  15 
fixed  on  a  beautiful  planet  'that  shone  like  another  moon' 
and  prevailed  on  him  to  come  in.  He  immediately  .  .  . 
wrote  .  .  .  with  all  the  ease  of  one  copying  from  mem- 
ory, these  sublime  and  pathetic  verses": 

TO    MARY    IN    HEAVEN. 

THOU  ling'ring  star,  with  less'ning  ray,  20 

That  lov'st  to  greet  the  early  morn, 
Again  thou  usher'st  in  the  day 

My  Mary  from  my  soul  was  torn. 
O  Mary  !  dear  departed  shade  ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest  ?  25 

See'st  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ? 

Hear'st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  breast? 

1  gleaming.        '2  sky.        3  high.        4  fellow.        5  See  introduction  to 
A  Bards  Epitaph. 


62  POEMS   OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

That  sacred  hour  can  I  forget, 

Can  I  forget  the  hallowed  grove, 
Where  by  the  winding  Ayr  we  met 

To  live  one  day  of  parting  love  ? 
5  Eternity  will  not  efface 

Those  records  dear  of  transports  past, 
Thy  image  at  our  last  embrace  — 

Ah  !  little  thought  we  't  was  our  last ! 

Ayr,  gurgling,  kiss'd  his  pebbl'd  shore, 

10  O'erhung  with  wild  woods,  thick'ning  green ; 

The  fragrant  birch  and  hawthorn  hoar 

Twin'd  amorous  round  the  raptur'd  scene : 
The  flow'rs  sprang  wanton  to  be  prest, 
The  birds  sang  love  on  every  spray, 
15  Till  too,  too  soon  the  glowing  west 

Proclaim'd  the  speed  of  winged  day. 

Still  o'er  these  scenes  my  mem'ry  wakes, 
And  fondly  broods  with  miser  care  ! 

Time  but  th'  impression  stronger  makes, 
20  As  streams  their  channels  deeper  wear. 

My  Mary,  dear  departed  shade  ! 
Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest  ? 

See'st  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ? 

Hear'st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  breast  ? 

25  While  Captain  Grose,  the  antiquary,  was  preparing  his 
Antiquities  of  Scotland,  Burns  asked  him  to  include  Allo- 
way  Kirk,  the  burial-place  of  the  poet's  father,  and  the 
scene  of  many  good  witch  stories.  The  captain  agreed 
to  make  the  drawing,  provided  Burns  would  furnish  an 

30  accompanying  legend.  The  result  was  that  Burns  wrote 
three  prose  stories  and  turned  one  of  them  into 


REPRESENTATIVE  POEMS.  63 

TAM    O'    SHANTER. 

A    TALE. 
Of  Brownyis  and  of  Bogillis  full  is  this  Buke.  —  GAWIN  DOUGLAS. 

WHEN  chapman  billies  leave  the  street,1 
And  drouthy2  neibors  neibors  meet, 
As  market-days  are  wearing  late, 
And  folk  begin  to  tak  the  gate  ; 8 
While  we  sit  bousin4  at  the  nappy,5  5 

And  gettin  fou 6  and  unco  happy, 
W7e  think  na  on  the  lang  Scots  miles, 
The  mosses,  waters,  slaps,7  and  stiles, 
That  lie  between  us  and  our  name, 
Whare  sits  our  sulky,  sullen  dame,  10 

Gathering  her  brows  like  gatherTng~stonr^ 
Nursing  her  wrath  to  keep  it  warm. 

This  truth  fand 8  honest  Tarn  o'  Shanter, 
As  he  frae  Ayr  ae  night  did  canter  : 
(Auld  Ayr,  wham  ne'er  a  town  surpasses,  15 

For  honest  men  and  bonie  lasses.) 

O  Tarn  !  had'st  thou  but  been  sae  wise 
As  taen  thy  ain  wife  Kate's  advice! 
She  tauld  thee  weel  thou  was  a  skellum, 
A  bletherin,  blusterin,  drunken  blellum ;  20 

That  frae  November  till  October, 
Ae  market-day 9  thou  was  na  sober ; 
That  ilka 10  melder  n  wi'  the  miller, 
Thou  sat  as  lang  as  thou  had  siller ; 

When  packman  fellows,  the  sellers  at  the  booths  and  stalls,  leave  the  mar- 
ket. 2  thirsty.  3  road.  4  drinking  deeply.  5  ale.  6  full.  7  bogs. 
8  found.  9  the  weekly  market.  10  every.  n  the  quantity  of  grain 
sent  to  the  mill  to  be  ground  at  one  time. 


64  POEMS  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

That  ev'ry  naig l  was  ca'd  a  shoe  on,2 
The  smith  and  thee  gat  roarin  fou  on; 
That  at  the  Lord's  house,  ev'n  on  Sunday, 
Thou  drank  wi'  Kirkton  3  Jean  till  Monday. 
5  She  prophesied,  that,  late  or  soon, 

Thou  would  be  found  deep  drown'd  in  Doon; 
Or  catch't  wi'  warlocks  4  in  the  mirk,5 
By  Alloway's  auld  haunted  kirk. 

Ah,  gentle  dames  I  it  gars  6  me  greet,1 
10  To  think  how  mony  counsels  sweet, 

How  mony  lengthened  sage  advices, 
The  husband  frae  the  wife  despises  ! 

But  to  our  tale  :  —  Ae  market  night, 
Tarn  had  got  planted  unco  right, 

15  Fast  by  an  ingle  8  bleezin9  finely, 

Wi'  reamin  swats 10  that  drank  divinely ; 
And  at  his  elbow,  Souter  "  Johnie, 
His  ancient,  trusty,  drouthy 12  crony : 
Tarn  lo'ed  him  like  a  vera  brither ; 

20  They  had  been  fou  for  weeks  thegither. 

The  night  drave  on  wi'  sangs  and  clatter ; 
And  ay  the  ale  was  growing  better : 
The  landlady  and  Tarn  grew  gracious 
Wi'  secret  favours,  sweet,  and  precious: 

25  The  souter  tauld  his  queerest  stories  ; 

The  landlord's  laugh  was  ready  chorus : 
The  storm  without  might  rair 13  and  rustle, 
Tam  did  na  mind  the  storm  a  whistle. 

1  nag.  2  shod.  8  a  common  name  for  any  country  town  that  has  a 
parish  church.  Here,  perhaps,  it  means  Kirkoswald,  which  claims  the 
originals  of  all  the  characters  in  the  poem.  4  wizards.  6  darkness. 
6  makes.  ?  weep.  8  fire.  9  blazing.  1°  foaming  ale.  H  cobbler. 
12  thirsty.  13  roar. 


REPRESENTATIVE  POEMS.  65 

Care,  mad  to  see  a  man  sae  happy, 
E'en  drown'd  himsel  amang  the  nappy: 
As  bees  flee  hame  wi'  lades  o'  treasure, 
The  minutes  wing'd  their  way  wi'  pleasure; 
Kings  may  be  blest,  but  Tarn  was  glorious,  5 

O'er  a'  the  ills  o'  life  victorious  ! 

But  pleasures  are  like  poppies  spread, 
You  seize  the  flow'r,  its  bloom  is  shed ; 
Or  like  the  snow  falls  in  the  river, 
A  moment  white  —  then  melts  for  ever ;  10 

Or  like  the  borealis  race, 
That  flit  e'er  you  can  point  their  place ; 
Or  like  the  rainbow's  lovely  form 
Evanishing  amid  the  storm. 
Nae  man  can  tether  time  or  tide :  15 

The  hour  approaches  Tarn  maun  ride,  — 
That  hour,  o'  night's  black  arch  the  key-stane, 
That  dreary  hour  he  mounts  his  beast  in ; 
And  sic  a  night  he  taks  the  road  in, 
As  ne'er  poor  sinner  was  abroad  in.  20 

The  wind  blew  as  't  wad  blawn  its  last ; 
The  rattling  show'rs  rose  on  the  blast ; 
The  speedy  gleams  the  darkness  swallow'd ; 
Loud,  deep,  and  lang  the  thunder  bellow'd : 
That  night,  a  child  might  understand,  25 

The  Deil  had  business  on  his  hand.1 

Weel  mounted  on  his  gray  mear,2  Meg, 
A  better  never  lifted  leg, 

1  Carlyle  says  that  the  "chasm  between  the  Ayr  public-house  and  the  gate 
of  Tophet "  —  between  the  natural  and  the  supernatural  —  "  is  nowhere 
bridged  over."  It  has  been  suggested  that  line  8,  page  64,  is  the  first 
link  and  that  these  two  are  the  second.  2  mare. 


66  POEMS  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

Tarn  skelpit 1  on  thro'  dub 2  and  mire, 
Despising  wind  and  rain  and  fire ; 
Whiles  holding  fast  his  guid  blue  bonnet, 
Whiles  crooning  o'er  some  auld  Scots  sonnet, 
5  Whiles  glowrin  round  wi'  prudent  cares, 

Lest  bogles  catch  him  unawares. 
Kirk-Alloway  was  drawing  nigh, 
Whare  ghaists  and  houlets 3  nightly  cry. 

By  this  time  he  was  cross  the  ford, 
10  Whare  in  the  snaw  the  chapman  smoor'd  ; 4 

And  past  the  birks  *  and  meikle 6  stane, 

Whare  drucken  Charlie  brak  's  neck-bane ; 
-     And  thro'  the  whins,7  and  by  the  cairn,8 

Whare  hunters  fand  the  murder'd  bairn ; 
15  And  near  the  thorn,  aboon  the  well, 

Whare  Mungo's  mither  hang'd  hersel. 

Before  him  Doon  pours  all  his  floods ; 

The  doubling  storm  roars  thro'  the  woods ; 

The  lightnings  flash  from  pole  to  pole, 
20  Near  and  more  near  the  thunders  roll ; 

When,  glimmering  thro'  the  groaning  trees, 

Kirk-Alloway9  seemed  in  a  bleeze; 

Thro'  ilka  bore 10  the  beams  were  glancing, 

And  loud  resounded  mirth  and  dancing. 

25  Inspiring  bold  John  Barleycorn  ! 

What  dangers  thou  can'st  make  us  scorn ! 
Wi'  tippenny  n  we  fear  nae  evil ; 
Wi'  usquebae  12  we  '11  face  the  devil ! 

1  rattled.  2  puddle.  3  Owls.  4  smothered.  &  birches.  6  big.  7  gorse. 
8  pile  of  stones.  9  Burns  was  born  within  a  few  yards  of  this  church. 
Though  deserted  in  his  time,  it  was  prominent  in  many  of  the  stories  of 
devils,  ghosts,  and  witches  told  Burns  by  the  superstitious  old  woman 
who  lived  in  the  family.  Now  it  is  a  roofless  ruin.  10  crevice. 

11  twopenny  ale.         12  whiskey. 


REPRESENTATIVE  POEMS.  67 

The  swats  sae  ream'd  in  Tammie's  noddle, 

Fair  play,  he  car'd  na  deils  a  boddle. 

But  Maggie  stood  right  sair  astonish'd, 

Till,  by  the  heel  and  hand  admonish'd, 

She  ventur'd  forward  on  the  light ;  5 

And,  wow  1  Tarn  saw  an  unco  sight ! 

Warlocks 1  and  witches  in  a  dance ; 
Nae  cotillon  brent  new  2  frae  France, 
But  hornpipes,  jigs,  strathspeys,  and  reels 
Put  life  and  mettle  in  their  heels  :  10 

A  winnock3  bunker4  in  the  east, 
There  sat  Auld  Nick  in  shape  o'  beast; 
A  towzie  tyke,6  black,  grim,  and  large, 
To  gie  them  music  was  his  charge ; 
He  screw'd  the  pipes6  and  gart  them  skirl,7  15 

Till  roof  and  rafters  a'  did  dirl.8  — 
Coffins  stood  round  like  open  presses, 
That  shaw'd  the  dead  in  their  last  dresses ; 
And  by  some  devilish  cantraip  sleight9 
Each  in  its  cauld  hand  held  a  light,  20 

By  which  heroic  Tarn  was  able 
To  note  upon  the  haly  table 10 
A  murderer's  banes  in  gibbet  aims;11 
Twa  span-lang,  wee,  unchristen'd  bairns; 
A  thief,  new-cutted  frae  the  rape  —  25 

Wi'  his  last  gasp  his  gab  12  did  gape ; 
Five  tomahawks,  wi'  blude  red-rusted ; 
Five  scymitars,  wi'  murder  crusted ; 
A  garter,  which  a  babe  had  strangled ; 
A  knife,  a  father's  throat  had  mangled,  30 

1  wizards.  2  brand-new.  3  window.  4  recess.  6  shaggy  dog.  *  bagpipes. 
7  scream.  8  ring.  9  weird  trick.  10  communion  table.  n  irons. 
12  mouth. 


68  POEMS   OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

Whom  his  ain  son  o'  life  bereft  — 
The  gray  hairs  yet  stack l  to  the  heft ; 2 
Wi'  mair  o'  horrible  and  awfu',8 
Which  ev'n  to  name  wad  be  unlawfu'. 

5  As  Tammie  glowr'd,  amaz'd  and  curious, 

The  mirth  and  fun  grew  fast  and  furious : 
The  piper  loud  and  louder  blew, 
The  dancers  quick  and  quicker  flew ; 
They  reel'd,  they  set,  they  cross'd,  they  cleekit,4 
10  Till  ilka  carlin5  swat  and  reekit6 

And  coost7  her  duddies  8  to  the  wark 
And  linket  at  it9  in  her  sark  ! 10 

Now  Tarn,  O  Tam  !  had  thae  n  been  queans,1* 
A'  plump  and  strapping  in  their  teens  ! 

15  Their  sarks,  instead  o'  creeshie  flannen,18 

Been  snaw-white  seventeen  hunder  linen  ! 14  — 
Thir16  breeks  o'  mine,  my  only  pair, 
That  ance  were  plush,  o'  gude  blue  hair, 
I  wad  hae  gien  them  aff  my  hurdies,16 

30  For  ae  blink  o'  the  bonie  burdies  !17 

But  wither'd  beldams,  auld  and  droll, 
Rigwoodie  18  hags  wad  spean 19  a  foal, 
Lowping  w  and  flinging  on  a  crummock,21 
I  wonder  didna  turn  thy  stomach. 

25  But  Tam  ken'd  what  was  what  fu'  brawlie ; a 

There  was  ae  winsome  wench  and  walie,23 

l  stuck.  2  handle.  8  Cf.  Macbeth,  IV,  i.  *  joined  hands.  6  witch. 
6  steamed.  1  threw  off.  8  clothes.  9  set  to  it.  i»  shift.  H  those. 
12  young  women.  13  greasy  flannel.  14  very  fine  linen,  woven  in  a 
reed  of  seventeen  hundred  divisions.  1S  these.  i6  hips.  ljr  damsels. 
18  wizened.  19  wean.  20  leaping.  21  staff  with  a  crooked  head. 
22  very  well.  ^  powerful. 


REPRESENTATIVE  POEMS.  69 

That  night  enlisted  in  the  core l 

(Lang  after  ken'd  on  Carrick  shore  : 

For  mony  a  beast  to  dead  she  shot, 

And  perish'd  mony  a  bonie  boat, 

And  shook  baith  meikle  corn  and  bear,8  5 

And  kept  the  country-side  in  fear)  ; 

Her  cutty  sark  o'  Paisley  harn,  3 

That  while  a  lassie  she  had  worn, 

In  longitude  tho'  sorely  scanty, 

It  was  her  best,  and  she  was  vauntie.4  10 

Ah  !  little  kent  thy  reverend  grannie, 

That  sark  she  cof t 6  for  her  wee  Nannie, 

Wi'  twa  pund  Scots  ('t  was  a'  her  riches), 

Wad  ever  graced  a  dance  o'  witches  ! 

But  here  my  Muse  her  wing  maun  cow'r,6  15 

Sic  flights  are  far  beyond  her  pow'r ; 
To  sing  how  Nannie  lap  and  flang,7 
(A  souple  jad  8  she  was  and  strang,) 
And  how  Tam  stood  like  ane  bewitch'd, 
And  thought  his  very  een  enrich'd ;  20 

Even  Satan  glowr'd  9  and  fidg'd  fu'  fain, 
And  hotch'd  10  and  blew  wi'  might  and  main  : 
Till  first  ae  caper,  syne  u  anither, 
Tam  tint 12  his  reason  a'  thegither, 
And  roars  out,  "  Weel  done,  Cutty-sark  1 "  25 

And  in  an  instant  all  was  dark  : 
And  scarcely  had  he  Maggie  rallied, 
When  out  the  hellish  legion  sallied. 

As  bees  bizz  out  wi'  angry  fyke,13 
When  plundering  herds  assail  their  byke ; 14  30 

1  company.  2  barley.  3  short  shift  of  coarse  linen.  4  proud  of  it.  6  bought. 
6  fold.  7  leaped  and  kicked.  8  iass.  9  gazed.  10  moved  uneasily, 
n  then.  12  lost.  13  fuss.  14  nest. 


70  POEMS  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

As  open  pussie's  l  mortal  foes, 
When,  pop  !  she  starts  before  their  nose ; 
As  eager  runs  the  market-crowd, 
When  "  Catch  the  thief  !  "  resounds  aloud ; 
5  So  Maggie  runs,  the  witches  follow, 

Wi'  mony  an  eldritch 2  skriech  and  hollo. 

Ah,  Tarn  !  ah,  Tarn  !  thou  '11  get  thy  f airin ! 8 
In  hell  they'll  roast  thee  like  a  herrin  ! 
In  vain  thy  Kate  awaits  thy  comin  ! 

10  Kate  soon  will  be  a  woefu'  woman  ! 

Now,  do  thy  speedy  utmost,  Meg, 
And  win  the  key-stane  4  of  the  brig  : 
There  at  them  thou  thy  tail  may  toss, 
A  running  stream  they  dare  na  cross. 

15  But  ere  the  key-stane  she  could  make, 

The  fient  a  tail  she  had  to  shake  ! 
For  Nannie,  far  before  the  rest, 
Hard  upon  noble  Maggie  prest, 
And  flew  at  Tarn  wi'  furious  ettle ; 5 

20  But  little  wist  she  Maggie's  mettle  — 

Ae  spring  brought  aff  her  master  hale, 
But  left  behind  her  ain  gray  tail : 
The  carlin  6  claught 7  her  by  the  rump, 
And  left  poor  Maggie  scarce  a  stump. 

25  Now,  wha  this  tale  o'  truth  shall  read, 

Ilk  man  and  mother's  son,  take  heed, 


1  the  hare's.  2  unearthly.  3  reward.  4  It  is  a  well  known  fact  that  witches, 
or  any  evil  spirits,  have  no  power  to  follow  a  poor  wight  any  farther 
than  the  middle  of  the  next  running  stream.  It  may  be  proper  like- 
wise to  mention  to  the  benighted  traveller,  that  when  he  falls  in  with 
bogles,  whatever  danger  may  be  in  his  going  forward,  there  is  much 
more  hazard  in  turning  back.  —  B.  6  aim.  6  witch.  ?  clutched. 


REPRESENTATIVE  POEMS.  71 

Whene'er  to  drink  you  are  inclin'd, 
Or  cutty-sarks  run  in  your  mind, 
Think,  ye  may  buy  the  joys  owre  dear, 
Remember  Tarn  o'  Shanter's  mear.1 

"  Tarn  d*  Shanter"  says  Burns,  "  is  my  first  essay  in  5 
the  way  of  telling  a  tale."  It  is  his  only  tale  and  in  the 
opinion  of  Scott,  Lockhart,  Burns  himself,  and  perhaps 
a  majority  of  Scots,  his  masterpiece.  It  is  said  to  have 
been  written  in  one  day.  Carlyle  says  it  is  "  the  best 
day's  work  done  in  Scotland  since  Bannockburn."  10 

A  lyric  that  needs  no  comment  is 


BONIE    BOON. 

YE  flowery  banks  o'  bonie  Boon, 

How  can  ye  blume  sae  fair  ? 
How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds, 

And  I  sae  fu'  o'  care  ?  15 

Thou  '11  break  my  heart,  thou  bonie  bird, 

That  sings  upon  the  bough ; 
Thou  minds  me  o'  the  happy  days, 

When  my  fause  luve  was  true. 

Thou  '11  break  my  heart,  thou  bonie  bird,  20 

That  sings  beside  thy  mate; 
For  sae  I  sat,  and  sae  I  sang, 

And  wist  na  o'  my  fate. 

1  It  is  interesting  to  compare  the  ending  of  the  prose  version :  "  However,  th« 
unsightly,  tail-less  condition  of  the  vigorous  steed  was  to  the  last  hour 
of  the  noble  creature's  life  an  awful  warning  to  all  Carrick  farmers  not 
to  stay  too  late  in  Ayr  markets." 


72  POEMS   OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

Aft  hae  I  rov'd  by  bonie  Doon 

To  see  the  wood-bine  twine, 
And  ilka 1  bird  sang  o'  its  luve, 

And  sae  did  I  o'  mine. 

5  Wi'  lightsome  heart  I  pu'd  a  rose 

Frae  aff  its  thorny  tree; 
And  my  f ause  luver  staw 2  my  rose 
But  left  the  thorn  wi'  me. 

The  result  is  so  good  that  one  may  be  surprised  to  learn 
10  from  Mr.  Scott  Douglas  that  the  poet's  aim  in  composing 
"  this  most  popular  of  his  songs  "  was  merely  to  fit  a  par- 
ticular tune  with  suitable  words. 

Again,  we  do  not  know  the  heroine  of 


FLOW   GENTLY,   SWEET   AFTON. 

FLOW  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green  braes,8 
15       Flow  gently,  I  '11  sing  thee  a  song  in  thy  praise ; 
My  Mary 's  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  stream, 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her  dream. 

Thou  stock-dove  whose  echo  resounds  thro'  the  glen, 
Ye  wild  whistling  blackbirds  in  yon  thorny  den, 
20      Thou  green-crested  lapwing,  thy  screaming  forbear, 
I  charge  you  disturb  not  my  slumbering  fair. 

How  lofty,  sweet  Afton,  thy  neighbouring  hills, 
Far  raark'd  with  the  courses  of  clear  winding  rills ; 
There  daily  I  wander  as  noon  rises  high, 
25      My  flocks  and  my  Mary's  sweet  cot  in  my  eye. 

1  every.  2  stole.  3  slopes. 


REPRESENTATIVE   POEMS.  73 

How  pleasant  thy  banks  and  green  valleys  below, 
Where  wild  in  the  woodlands  the  primroses  blow ; 
There  oft,  as  mild  Evening  weeps  over  the  lea, 
The  sweet-scented  birk l  shades  my  Mary  and  me. 

Thy  crystal  stream,  Afton,  how  lovely  it  glides,  5 

And  winds  by  the  cot  where  my  Mary  resides ; 

How  wanton  thy  waters  her  snowy  feet  lave, 

As  gathering  sweet  flow'rets  she  stems  thy  clear  wave. 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green  braes, 
Flow  gently,  sweet  river,  the  theme  of  my  lays;  10 

My  Mary  's  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  stream, 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her  dream. 


It  is  not  difficult  to  understand  Mr.  Douglas's  note: 
11  A  kind  of  holy  calm  pervades  the  soul  of  the  reader 
who  peruses,  or  the  auditor  who  listens  to  the  music  of  15 
this  unique  strain.  The  'pastoral  melancholy'  which 
Wordsworth  felt  at  St.  Mary's  Loch  steals  over  his  heart 
and  laps  him  in  a  dreamy  elysium  of  sympathetic  repose." 

In   1787-8,  before  Burns's  regular  marriage  with  Jean 
Armour,  he  had  become  acquainted  with  Mrs.  Maclehose.  20 
They  found  each  other  most  fascinating.     Their  lively 
correspondence  came  to  an  abrupt  end,  however,  when 
Burns  told  her  of  his  coming  marriage.     In   1791   they 
met  again  in  time  for  Burns  to  bid  her  farewell  before  she 
sailed  to  the  West  Indies.     Soon  afterward  he  sent  her  25 
the  poem 


l  birch. 


74  POEMS  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

U 

AE    FOND    KISS. 

AE  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever ; 
Ae  fareweel,  and  then  for  ever! 
Deep  in  heart-wrung  tears  I  '11  pledge  thee, 
Warring  sighs  and  groans  I  '11  wage  thee. 
5  Who  shall  say  that  Fortune  grieves  him, 

While  the  star  of  hope  she  leaves  him  ? 
Me,  nae  cheerfu'  twinkle  lights  me ; 
Dark  despair  around  benights  me. 

I  '11  ne'er  blame  my  partial  fancy, 
10  Naething  could  resist  my  Nancy ; 

But  to  see  her  was  to  love  her ; 

Love  but  her,  and  love  for  ever. 

Had  we  never  lov'd  sae  kindly, 

Had  we  never  lov'd  sae  blindly, 
15  Never  met  —  or  never  parted  — 

We  had  ne'er  been  broken-hearted. 

Fare  thee  weel,  thou  first  and  fairest ! 
Fare  thee  weel,  thou  best  and  dearest ! 
Thine  be  ilka  joy  and  treasure, 
20  Peace,  enjoyment,  love,  and  pleasure  ! 

Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever ; 
Ae  fareweel,  alas,  for  ever ! 
Deep  in  heart-wrung  tears  I  '11  pledge  thee, 
Warring  sighs  and  groans  I  '11  wage l  thee  ! 

25       Scott  has  remarked  that  the  four  lines  beginning  with 

"  Had  we  never  lov'd  sae  kindly  "  are  worth  a  thousand 

romances ;    and  Mrs.  Jameson  has  said  that  not  only  are 

they  worth  a  thousand  romances  —  they  are  "  in  them- 

i  pledge. 


REPRESENTATIVE  POEMS.  75 

selves  a  complete  romance.  They  are  the  alpha  and 
omega  of  feeling,  and  contain  the  essence  of  an  existence 
of  pain  and  pleasure  distilled  into  one  burning  drop." 

In  August,  1792,  Mr.  Baillie  and  his  two  daughters, 
neighbors  of  Mrs.  Dunlop,  while  on  their  way  to  England  5 
called  on  Burns.  The  meeting  with  Miss  Leslie  Baillie 
filled  the  poet's  soul  with  "  delighting  "  and  "  pure  "  emo- 
tions, as  he  wrote  Mrs.  Dunlop.  He  accompanied  his 
guests  some  fifteen  miles,  and  as  he  rode  home  he  thought 
of  the  old  ballad  beginning  10 

"  O  bonie  Lizzie  Baillie, 

I  '11  rowe  thee  in  my  plaidie," 
and  composed 

BONIE    LESLEY. 

O  SAW  ye  bonie  Lesley 

As  she  gaed  o'er  the  border?  15 

She  's  gane,  like  Alexander, 

To  spread  her  conquests  farther. 

j     To  see  her  is  to  love  her, 

And  love  but  her  for  ever ; 

For  Nature  made  her  what  she  is,  20 

And  never  made  anither  ! 

Thou  art  a  queen,  fair  Lesley, 

Thy  subjects,  we  before  thee : 
Thou  art  divine,  fair  Lesley, 

The  hearts  o'  men  adore  thee.  25 

The  Deil  he  could  na  scaith  l  thee, 
Or  aught  that  wad  belang  thee ; 

1  harm. 


76  POEMS  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

He  'd  look  into  thy  bonie  face, 
And  say,  "  I  canna  wrang  thee." 

The  powers  aboon  will  tent  thee ; 
Misfortune  sha'  na  steer 1  thee ; 
5  Thou  'rt  like  themselves  sae  lovely, 

That  ill  they  '11  ne'er  let  near  thee. 

Return  again,  fair  Lesley, 

Return  to  Caledonie  ! 
That  we  may  brag,  we  hae  a  lass 
10  There  's  nane  again  sae  bonie. 

Three  years  before  he  had  written  To  Mary  in  Heaven* 
It  is  the  same  Mary  that  he  remembers  so  tenderly  in 

HIGHLAND    MARY. 

YE  banks,  and  braes,  and  streams  around 

The  castle  o'  Montgomery, 
15  Green  be  your  woods  and  fair  your  flowers, 

Your  waters  never  drumlie  ! 2 
There  simmer3  first  unfauld  her  robes, 

And  there  the  langest  tarry ; 
For  there  I  took  the  last  fareweel 
20  O'  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

How  sweetly  bloom'd  the  gay  green  birk, 
How  rich  the  hawthorn's  blossom, 

As  underneath  their  fragrant  shade 

I  clasp'd  her  to  my  bosom ! 
25  The  golden  hours,  on  angel  wings, 

Flew  o'er  me  and  my  dearie ; 

1  molest.  2  muddy.  8  summer. 


REPRESENTATIVE   POEMS.  77 

For  dear  to  me  as  light  and  life, 
Was  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

Wi'  monie  a  vow  and  lock'd  embrace 

Our  parting  was  f u'  tender ; 
And,  pledging  aft  to  meet  again,  5 

We  tore  oursels  asunder ; 
But  O  !  fell  death's  untimely  frost, 

That  nipt  my  flower  sae  early  ! 
Now  green 's  the  sod,  and  cauld  's  the  clay, 

That  wraps  my  Highland  Mary  !  10 

O  pale,  pale  now,  those  rosy  lips, 

I  aft  hae  kiss'd  sae  fondly ! 
And  closed  for  aye  the  sparkling  glance, 

That  dwelt  on  me  sae  kindly ! 
And  mould'ring  now  in  silent  dust,  15 

That  heart  that  lo'ed  me  dearly ! 
But  still  within  my  bosom's  core 

Shall  live  my  Highland  Mary. 

In  the  fall  of  this  year,  1792,  he  began  to  send  contri- 
butions to  Melodies  of  Scotland.      He  writes  the  editor,  20 
Thomson  :  "  I  have  hitherto  deferred  the  sublimer,  more 
pathetic  airs,  until  more  leisure,  as  they  will  take  and 
deserve  a  greater  effort."     And  a  week  later  he  writes  of 
Highland  Mary :  "  I  think  it  in  my  happiest  manner  :  you 
will  see  at  first  glance  that  it  suits  the  air,"  —  Katherine  25 
Ogie,  one  of  the  oldest  and  most  plaintive  of   Scottish 
melodies. 

These  verses  illustrate  Milton's  declaration  that  rhyme 
is  "no  necessary  adjunct  or  true  ornament  of  poem  or 
good  verse."  30 

Another  contribution  to  Thomson's  collection  was 


78  POEMS   OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


DUNCAN    GRAY. 

DUNCAN  GRAY  came  here  to  woo, 
Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o  't ! 

On  blythe  Yule  night  when  we  were  fou, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o 't  ! 
5  Maggie  coost  her  head  fu  hiegh, 

Look'd  asklerit1  and  unco  skiegh,2 

Gart3  poor  Duncan  stand  abiegh;4 
Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o 't ! 

Duncan  fleech'd,5  and  Duncan  pray'd ; 
10  Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o 't ! 

Meg  was  deaf  as  Ailsa  Craig,6 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't  ! 
Duncan  sigh'd  baith  out  and  in, 
Gratr  his  een8  baith  bleer't9  and  blin', 
15  Spak  o'  lowpin  owre  a  linn  ; 10 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't ! 

Time  and  chance  are  but  a  tide, 
Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o 't ! 

Slighted  love  is  sair  to  bide, 
20  Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o 't ! 

"Shall  I,  like  a  fool,"  quoth  he, 

"  For  a  haughty  hizzie  n  die  ? 

She  may  gae  to  —  France  for  me  ! " 
Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o 't ! 


1  askance.  2  very  high-spirited.  8  made.  4  aloof.  5  flattered.  6  a  rocky 
islet  in  the  Firth  of  Clyde,  near  the  Ayrshire  coast.  7  wept.  8  eyes. 
9  bleared.  10  I.e.,  using  drowning  as  a  means  of  suicide.  A  linn  is  a 
waterfall.  "  A  line  .  .  .  that  should  make  you  immortal,"  wrote  Hon. 
Andrew  Erskine  to  the  poet.  U  lass. 


REPRESENTATIVE  POEMS.  79 

How  it  comes  let  doctors  tell, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o  't ! 
Meg  grew  sick  as  he  grew  hale, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o 't ! 

Something  in  her  bosom  wrings,  5 

For  relief  a  sigh  she  brings ; 
And  O !  her  een,  they  spak  sic  things  I 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o 't ! 

Duncan  was  a  lad  o'  grace, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o 't  1  10 

Maggie's  was  a  piteous  case, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o 't  ! 
Duncan  could  na  be  her  death, 
Swelling  pity  smoor'd 1  his  wrath ; 
Now  they're  crouse  and  cantie2  baith;  15 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o 't  ! 

In  sending  this  song  to  the  editor,  Burns  writes  :  "  'Dun- 
can Gray '  is  that  kind  of  light-horse  gallop  of  an  air  which 
precludes  sentiment.  The  ludicrous  is  its  ruling  feature." 
Mr.  Douglas  says  :  "  Few  of  Burns's  songs  acquired  a  20 
more  rapid  popularity  than  this;  it  is  so  thoroughly 
pointed  and  natural  throughout." 

In  1791   Burns  had  given  up  his  farm  and  bought  a 
house  in  Dumfries,  where  he  lived    as   exciseman.     At 
this  time  his  democratic  sympathies  were  touched  by  the  25 
French  Revolution.     In  1793  some  recent  success  of  the 
"patriots,"  together  with  the  recollection  of  Scotland's 
struggle  for  freedom  in  1314,  when  Bruce  on  the  field  of 
Bannockburn  gained  the  victory  over  Edward  II  which 
decided  the  independence  of  Scotland,  roused  Burns  to  30 
write 

1  smothered.        2  lively  and  happy. 


80  POEMS  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

SCOTS    WHA   HAE. 

SCOTS,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled, 
Scots,  wham  Bruce  has  aften  led ; 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed, 

Or  to  victory ! 

5  Now  's  the  day,  and  now 's  the  hour; 

See  the  front  o'  battle  lour ; 
See  approach  proud  Edward's  power  — 

Chains  and  slavery  ! 

Wha  will  be  a  traitor  knave  ? 
10  Wha  can  fill  a  coward's  grave? 

Wha  sae  base  as  be  a  slave  ? 

Let  him  turn  and  flee  ! 
Wha  for  Scotland's  king  and  law 
Freedom's  sword  will  strongly  draw, 
15  Freeman  stand,  or  Freeman  fa', 

Let  him  follow  me  ! 

By  oppression's  woes  and  pains  ! 
By  your  sons  in  servile  chains  ! 
We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins, 
20  B«*  they  shall  be  free  ! 

Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low  ! 
Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe  ! 
Liberty  's  in  every  blow  !  — 
Let  us  do,  or  die  ! 

25  In  sending  Thomson  this  "  Scot's  Ode,"  which  one 
might  suppose  to  be  Bruce's  "  address  to  his  heroic  fol- 
lowers on  that  eventful  morning,"  Burns  added  :  "  So 
may  God  ever  defend  the  cause  of  Truth  and  Liberty,  as 
He  did  that  day  !  " 


REPRESENTATIVE  POEMS.  81 

•'  Independently  of  my  enthusiasm  as  a  Scotsman,"  he 
wrote  Lord  Buchan,  in  1794,  "I  have  rarely  met  with 
anything  in  history  which  interests  my  feelings  as  a  man, 
equal  with  the  story  of  Bannockburn.  On  the  one  hand, 
a  cruel,  but  able  usurper,  leading  on  the  finest  army  in  5 
Europe,  to  extinguish  the  last  spark  of  freedom  among  a 
greatly-daring  and  greatly-injured  people;  on  the  other 
hand,  the.  desperate  relics  of  a  gallant  nation  devoting 
themselves  to  rescue  their  bleeding  country  or  perish 
with  her.  Liberty !  thou  art  a  prize  truly  and  indeed  in-  10 
valuable,  for  never  canst  thou  be  too  dearly  bought !" 

As  an  improvement  upon  a  street  ditty  Burns  wrote 


A    RED,  RED    ROSE. 

MY  Luve  is  like  a  red,  red  rose, 

That 's  newly  sprung  in  June : 
My  Luve  is  like  the  melodic,  15 

That 's  sweetly  play'd  in  tune. 

As  fair  art  thou,  my  bonie  lass, 

So  deep  in  luve  am  I : 
And  I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  Dear, 

Till  a*  the  seas  gang  dry.  20 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry,  my  Dear, 

And  the  rocks  melt  wi'  the  sun ; 
And  I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  Dear, 

While  the  sands  o'  life  shall  run. 

And  fare-thee-well,  my  only  Luve  !  25 

And  fare-thee-well  awhile ! 
And  I  will  come  again,  my  Luve, 

Tho'  't  were  ten  thousand  mile  ! 


82  POEMS  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

It  is  worth  while  to  remember  Hazlitt's  comment  on 
this  simple  lyric,  quoted  above  in  connection  with  Mary 
Moris  on. 

In  1795,  when  it  was  safer  for  a  reformer  to  speak  out 

5  than  it  had  been  since  1792,  Burns  wrote  Thomson  :  "  A 

great  critic,  Aikin,  on  songs  says  that  Love  and  Wine 

are  the  exclusive  themes  for  song-writing.     The  following 

is  on  neither  subject  and  consequently  is  no  Song;  but 

will  be  allowed,  I  think,  to  be  two  or  three  pretty  good 

10  prose  thoughts  inverted  into  rhyme  "  : 

A    MAN'S    A    MAN    FOR   A'   THAT. 

Is  there,  for  honest  poverty, 

That  hings  his  head,  an'  a'  that  ? 
The  coward  slave,  we  pass  him  by, 

We  dare  be  poor  for  a'  that ! 
15  For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that, 

Our  toils  obscure,  an'  a'  that ; 
The  rank  is  but  the  guinea's  stamp ; 
The  man 's  the  gowd l  for  a'  that. 

What  tho'  on  hamely  fare  we  dine, 
20  Wear  hodden-gray,2  an'  a'  that ; 

Gie  fools  their  silks,  and  knaves  their  wine, 
A  man's  a  man  for  a*  that. 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that, 

Their  tinsel  show,  an'  a'  that ; 
25  The  honest  man,  tho'  e'er  sae  poor, 

Is  king  o'  men  for  a'  that. 

Ye  see  yon  birkie,8  ca'd  a  lord, 
Wha  struts,  an'  stares,  an'  a'  that ; 

1  gold.  2  coarse  woolen  cloth.  8  fellow. 


REPRESENTATIVE   POEMS.  83 

Tho'  hundreds  worship  at  his  word, 
He 's  but  a  coof  l  for  a'  that : 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that, 

His  riband,  star,  an'  a'  that, 
The  man  o'  independent  mind, 
He  looks  and  laughs  at  a'  that. 

A  prince  can  mak  a  belted  knight, 

A  marquis,  duke,  an'  a'  that; 
But  an  honest  man  's  aboon  his  might, 

Guid  faith  he  mauna  fa'2  that !  10 

For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that, 

Their  dignities,  an'  a'  that, 
The  pith  o'  sense,  an'  pride  o*  worth, 
Are  higher  rank  than  a'  that. 

Then  let  us  pray  that  come  it  may,  15 

As  come  it  will  for  a'  that, 
That  sense  and  worth,  o'er  a'  the  earth, 
May  bear  the  gree,3  an'  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that, 

It 's  coming  yet,  for  a'  that,  20 

That  man  to  man,  the  warld  o'er, 
Shall  brothers  be  for  a'  that. 

"  I  do  not  give  you  the  foregoing  song  for  your  book, 
...  for  the  piece  is  not  really  poetry." 

Mr.  Logic  Robertson  says  :  "  If  it  be  not  poetry  —  and  25 
Matthew  Arnold  of  all  critics  alone  agrees  with  the 
author  —  it  is  something  better."  Whatever  we  call  the 
lyric,  many  a  British  heart  responded  to  the  sentiments, 
and  the  spirit  of  it  is  worth  considering  in  connection 
with  the  American  Revolution  as  well  as  with  that  of  the  30 

1  fool        2  must  not  claim.        3  prize. 


84  POEMS  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

French.  "It  is  so  characteristic  of  Burns,"  says  Doug- 
las, "  that  of  all  the  poems  and  songs  he  ever  wrote,  it 
could  be  least  spared  from  a  collection  of  his  works." 
What  other  song  so  effectively  sings  Liberty,  Equality, 

5  Fraternity  ?     It    is    good    sense,    good    politics,    good 
religion. 

The  next  year  was  the  poet's  last.  During  his  fatal 
illness  he  was  attended  by  a  kind-hearted  friend  of  Mrs. 
Burns.  One  morning  he  suggested  to  this  young  woman 

10  that  if  she  would  like  new  verses  to  any  favorite  tune,  he 
would  do  his  best  to  produce  some.  She  at  once  played 
a  melody  she  liked  until  Burns  became  familiar  with  it, 
and  a  few  minutes  later  he  handed  her  these  verses  : 


O,   WERT   THOU    IN    THE   CAULD   BLAST. 

O,  WERT  thou  in  the  cauld  blast, 
15  On  yonder  lea,  on  yonder  lea, 

My  plaidie  to  the  angry  airt,1 

I  'd  shelter  thee,  I  'd  shelter  thee. 
Or  did  misfortune's  bitter  storms 

Around  thee  blaw,  around  thee  blaw, 
20  Thy  beild 2  should  be  my  bosom, 

To  share  it  a',  to  share  it  a'. 

Or  were  I  in  the  wildest  waste, 

Sae  black  and  bare,  sae  black  and  bare, 

The  desert  were  a  paradise, 
25  If  thou  wert  there,  if  thou  wert  there. 

Or  were  I  monarch  o'  the  globe, 
Wi'  thee  to  reign,  wi'  thee  to  reign, 

The  brightest  jewel  in  my  crown 

Wad  be  my  queen,  wad  be  my  queen. 

1  quarter.  2  shelter. 


REPRESENTATIVE  POEMS.  85 

In  this  simple  song  the  youthfulness  of  Mary  Morison 
has  developed  into  an  expression  of  love  that  is  mature 
and  thoroughly  refined.  Much  of  the  best  poetry  is 
incomplete  until  it  is  read  aloud,  but  perhaps  Mendels- 
sohn has  done  more  toward  perfecting  these  two  stanzas  5 
than  the  human  voice  can  do,  his  melody  harmonizes  so 
exquisitely  with  the  beautiful  thought.  It  is  with  rever- 
ence that  we  listen  as  through  the  weird  Scots  atmos- 
phere both  the  musician  and  the  poet  bring  us  the  ap- 
pealing message  of  one  whose  sympathy  was  enriched  by  10 
suffering. 


PRONUNCIATION. 


[Mr.  E.  Charlton  Black,  of  Cambridge,  not  only  gave  me  valuable  suggestions  on 
this  subject,  but  was  thoughtful  enough  to  read  the  manuscript  to  Dr.  John 
Watson  (Ian  Maclaren).] 

AFTER  reminding  us  that  the  Scottish  language  is  not  a 
different  language  from  English,  but  merely  the  northern 
dialect  of  English,  Mr.  John  Stuart  Blackie  says  :  "  The 
Scotch  form  of  English  bears  on  its  face  the  distinct  evidence 
of  a  dialect  formed  under  the  influence  of  music  and  popu- 
lar minstrelsy.  It  is,  philologically  considered,  the  musical 
and  lyrical  variety  of  the  general  English  speech,  and  as 
such  has  a  claim  to  be  recognized  in  the  higher  education 
of  all  who  speak  the  common  English  tongue."  Instead  of 
giving  it  this  recognition,  however,  we  are  likely  to  say  with 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson  that  before  long  Burns's  Ayrshire 
and  Scott's  "brave  metropolitan  utterance"  will  be  "the 
ghosts  of  speech."  Meantime  let  us  not  be  timid  about 
pronouncing  this  dying  Scots-English.  Inasmuch  as  every 
county  has  its  peculiarities,  hard  and  fast  rules  are  out  of 
place. 

A  has  nearly  the  same  variety  of  sounds  that  we  have  in 
the  English  ale,  care,  arm,  ask,  and  all;  a'  is  equivalent  to 
a  in  all.  A  I,  as  in  mair,  is  one  way  of  indicating  the  sound 
of  a  in  care.  E  is  both  short  and  long,  much  as  in  English, 
/generally  has  the  sound  of  /  in  bird  (sometimes  it  is  like 
i  in  pin,  or  u  in  cup,  occasionally  like  /  mjtne)  •  Fhas  nearly 

87 


88  PRONUNCIA  TION. 

the  same  values.  O  has  only  one  sound,  as  in  more; 
whether  long,  as  in  morn,  or  short,  as  in  bonie,  the  quality 
is  practically  the  same.  U,  when  not  like  u  in  run,  or  oo  as 
in  moon,  is  as  much  like  the  French  u  or  German  u  as  it  is 
like  any  one  sound.  £//and  OO,  as  in  guid  and  aboon,  are 
but  slight  modifications  of  this  sound.  O  £7  is  like  the  Eng- 
lish oo.  H,  when  not  silent,  is  strongly  aspirate  ;  r  rolls  — 
sometimes  into  two  syllables  ;  ng  is  simple,  as  in  lang-er 
(not  like  the  English  anger)  ;  and  ch  and  gh  are  strongly 
aspirated  as  gutturals,  like  the  German  ch  after  a,  o,  u,  and 
au.  E.g.,  brought  is  pronounced  brocht.  Final  ed  has  the 
sound*  et  or  it  and  is  sometimes  so  spelled.  -Ing  is  pro- 
nounced like  its  ancient  form  -and,  in  which  the  d  is  silent. 


INDEX    OF   TITLES    AND    FIRST    LINES. 


PAGE 

ADDRESS     TO     THE     UNCO 

GUID,    OR    THE    RIGIDLY 

RIGHTEOUS  ......  40 

A.E  FOND  Kiss 74 

Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we 

sever -74 

A  guid  New-Year  I  wish  thee, 

Maggie 25 

A  MAN  's  A  MAN  FOR  A' 

THAT 82 

A  RED,  RED  ROSE  .  .  .  .  81 
As  Mailie  an'  her  lambs  the- 

gither  5 

AULD  LANG  SYNE  ....  58 
BANKS  OF  THE  DEVON,  THE  54 
BARD'S  EPITAPH,  A  ...  47 

BONIE  BOON 71 

BONIE  LESLEY 75 

COTTER'S  SATURDAY  NIGHT, 

THE 18 

DUNCAN  GRAY 78 

Duncan  Gray  came  here  to 

woo 78 

Farewell,  ye  dungeons  dark 

and  strong 55 

FLOW  GENTLY,  SWEET 

AFTON 72 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton, 

among  thy  green  braes  .  .  72 
GREEN  GROW  THE  RASHES  .  9 


PAGE 

Green  grow  the  rashes,  O     .  9 
Ha  !  whaur  ye  gaun,  ye  crow- 

lin'  ferlie *  .  43 

HIGHLAND  MARY    ....  76 
How  pleasant  the  banks    of 

the  clear  winding  Devon     .  54 

Is  there  a  whim-inspired  fool  47 

Is  there,  for  honest  poverty   .  82 

JOHN  ANDERSON  MY  Jo    .     .  59 

John  Anderson  my  jo,  John  59 
Lament  in  rhyme,  lament  in 

prose 7 

LINES    ON    AN    INTERVIEW 

WITH  LORD  DAER    ...  49 

LOUSE,  To  A 43 

MAILIE,  POOR,  DEATH  AND 

DYING  WORDS  OF    ...  5 
MAILIE'S,  POOR,  ELEGY    .     .  7 
MAN  WAS  MADE  TO  MOURN  .  10 
MARE  MAGGIE,  AULD,  THE 
AULD      FARMER'S     NEW- 
YEAR   MORNING   SALUTA- 
TION TO  HIS 25 

MARY  IN  HEAVEN,  To    .     .  61 

MARY  MORISON 2 

MOUNTAIN  DAISY,  To  A   .     .  45 

MOUSE,  To  A 15 

M'PHERSON'S    FAREWELL    .  55 
My  lov'd,  my  honour'd,  much 

respected  friend     .     .     .     .  18 


89 


9° 


INDEX   OF   TITLES  AND   FIRST  LINES. 


My   Luve  is  like    a  red,   red 

rose 8 1 

Of  a'  the  airts  the  wind  can 

blaw 57 

Oh  thou  unknown  Almighty 

Cause 3 

O  Mary,  at  thy  window  be  .  2 
O  saw  ye  bonie  Lesley  .  .  .  75 
O,  WERT  THOU  IN  THE 

CAULD  BLAST 84 

O,  Willie  brew'd  a  peck 

o'  maut 60 

O  ye  wha  are  sae  guid  yoursel  40 
PRAYER,  A,  IN  THE  PROSPECT 

OF  DEATH 3 

RANTIN  ROVIN  ROBIN  .  .  14 
SCOTS  WHA  HAE  .  .  .  .  80 
Scots  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace 

bled So 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be 

forgot 58 

TAM  o'  SHANTER  ....  63 
There  was  a  lad  was  born  in 

Kyle 14 


PAGE 

This  wot  ye  all  whom  it  con- 
cerns   49 

Thou  ling'ring  star,  with 
less'ning  ray 61 

TWA  DOGS,  THE    ....     30 

'T  was  in  that  place  o'  Scot- 
land's isle  ......  30 

Wee,  modest,  crimson-tipped 
flow'r 45 

Wee,  sleekit,  cowrin,  tim'rous 
beastie 15 

When  biting  Boreas,  fell  and 
doure 51 

When  chapman  billies  leave 
the  street 63 

When  chill  November's  surly 
blast 10 

WILLIE  BREWED  A  PECK 
o'  MAUT 60 

WINTER  NIGHT,  A  ....     51 

Ye  banks,  and  braes,  and 
streams  around  ....  76 

Ye  flowery  banks  o'  bonie 
Doon  71 


ESSAY   ON    BURNS 


OUTLINE    OF   THE    LIFE    OF   BURNS. 


IN  the  southwest  corner  of  Scotland,  on  the  coast,  some 
thirty  miles  from  Glasgow,  is  the  little  town  of  Ayr.  It  was 
in  a  two-roomed  cottage  near  by  that  Robert  Burns  was 
born.  He  inherited  from  his  strict,  sturdy  father  a  proud, 
quick  temper ;  from  his  mother  the  love  of  song.  Besides 
his  birthplace,  Burns  had  three  other  homes  in  Ayrshire, — 
Mount  Oliphant,  Lochlea,  and  Mossgiel. 

Robert  was  a  lad  of  seven  when  his  father  undertook  to 
earn  a  living  on  the  small  upland  farm  of  Mount  Oliphant. 
He  worked  like  a  slave  to  do  his  part,  as  oldest  boy,  towards 
supporting  the  family.  His  regular  attendance  at  school 
ended  in  his  ninth  year.  After  that  he  spent  a  few  weeks 
at  a  time  in  several  schools  for  some  special  purpose,  but 
his  principal  teacher  was  his  father.  The  one  luxury  that 
this  wise  father  allowed  himself  was  a  library.  Many  books 
that  he  could  not  buy  he  would  borrow ;  and  in  the  gloom 
that  enshrouds  this  life  of  incessant  toil,  which  impaired  per- 
manently the  physical  and  mental  powers  of  the  poet,  there 
is  certainly  one  bright  spot.  Although  the  Burns  boys 
rarely  saw  anybody  but  their  own  family,  they  had  in  their 
father  a  companion  who  made  it  his  business  to  educate  his 
children.  The  fact  must  not  be  overlooked  that  Robert 
read,  besides  many  other  authors,  Addison,  Pope,  Richard- 
son, Smollett,  Milton,  and  Shakspere.  He  was  an  eager 
and  industrious  reader.  He  absorbed  much  of  the  Bible, 
and  of  A  Select  Collection  of  English  Songs^  his  vade  mecum, 

i 


ii  OUTLINE   OF   THE  LIFE   OF  BURNS. 

he  writes  :  "  I  pored  over  them  driving  my  cart,  or  walking 
to  labor,  song  by  song,  verse  by  verse  —  carefully  noting  the 
tender  or  sublime  from  affectation  and  fustian." 

Into  this  monotonous  life  of  drudgery  and  economy, 
brightened  by  the  interesting  reading  and  the  profitable 
conversation  that  the  worthy  Scotsman  so  persistently  intro- 
duced, came  a  new  element;  when  in  his  fifteenth  year 
Robert  fell  in  love  with  the  girl  who  was  his  partner  in  har- 
vesting, and  wrote  "Handsome  Nell,"  his  first  song.  Later 
he  wrote  in  his  Commonplace  Book,  "I  never  had  the  least 
thought  ...  of  turning  Poet  till  I  got  once  heartily  in  Love, 
and  then  Rhyme  and  Song  were,  in  a  manner,  the  sponta- 
neous language  of  my  heart."  Henceforth,  as  he  himself  said, 
this  bit  of  tinder  was  "  eternally  lighted  up  by  some  Goddess 
or  other." 

After  twelve  years  of  patient  toil  in  Mount  Oliphant,  the 
Burns  family  removed  to  Lochlea,  in  the  parish  of  Tarbolton. 
Here  they  lived  in  a  similar  way,  but  more  comfortably,  dur- 
ing the  following  seven  years.  Robert  made  several  varia- 
tions in  the  routine  of  life.  For  a  time  he  studied  mensura- 
tion and  surveying  at  Kirkoswald,  a  village  full  of  smugglers 
and  adventurers.  Soon  afterward  he  entered  heartily  into 
the  founding  and  supporting  of  a  debating  society,  the 
Bachelors'  Club.  According  to  his  brother,  he  was  in  the 
secret  of  half  the  love  affairs  of  the  parish  of  Tarbolton,  and 
was  never  without  at  least  one  of  his  own. 

In  his  twenty-third  year  he  tried,  but  in  vain,  to  win  the 
affections  of  a  certain  farmer's  daughter.  Much  depressed, 
he  then  went  to  Irvine  to  learn  flax-dressing.  "  In  Irvine," 
writes  his  brother  Gilbert,  "  he  contracted  some  acquaintance 
of  a  freer  manner  of  thinking  and  living  than  he  had  been 
used  to,  whose  society  prepared  him  for  overleaping  the 
bounds  of  rigid  virtue  which  had  hitherto  restrained  him. 
During  this  period,  also,  he  became  a  Freemason,  which  was 


OUTLINE    OF   THE   LIFE   OF  BURNS.  iii 

his  first  introduction  to  the  life  of  a  boon  companion."  But 
his  melancholy  grew  on  him,  and  his  business  venture  proved 
a  failure  ;  he  returned  to  Lochlea,  worked  as  hard  as  ever 
on  the  farm,  and,  if  we  may  believe  Gilbert,  was  frugal  and 
temperate.  He  found  time  to  be  social  and  to  write  poems 
and  songs. 

His  father  had  lived  to  see  something  of  the  poet's  skill, 
but  he  died  soon  afterward,  anxious  lest  the  young  man 
should  prove  lacking  in  will  power. 

Robert  and  Gilbert  now  leased  the  small  farm  of  Mossgiel, 
near  the  village  of  Mauchline.  In  spite  of  the  older  son's 
determination  and  persistent  efforts,  the  crops  were  a  failure 
for  two  successive  seasons,  and  the  farmer  lost  heart.  Yet, 
unfortunate  as  he  was  in  his  farming,  undiscriminating  and 
imprudent  as  he  was  in  his  wooing,  he  was  so  generous 
socially,  and  so  frank  to  confess  his  follies  that  he  had 
many  friends  among  the  worthy  people  of  Ayrshire.  The 
generous-hearted,  upright  Gavin  Hamilton  and  the  affection- 
ate, cultured  Robert  Aiken  encouraged,  in  many  ways,  the 
young  poet  who  was  industriously  composing  in  the  field 
and  writing  out  at  a  deal  table  in  the  humble  farmhouse  a 
notable  collection  of  verse.  At  Hamilton's  suggestion,  he 
published  his  first  volume  of  poetry.  There  was  no  doubt 
that  the  author  of  this  volume,  although  only  twenty-six  years 
old,  was  a  genius. 

This  important  event  was  quickly  followed  by  another. 
The  natural  way  for  him  to  gain  the  attention  of  Scotland 
was  by  making  himself  known  at  Scotland's  capital ;  so  he 
went  to  Edinburgh.  The  reputation  of  the  poet  attracted 
the  attention  of  the  curious.  The  charm  of  the  conversa- 
tionalist held  spellbound  citizens  of  the  highest  rank.  The 
pride  and  assurance  of  the  Ayrshire  plowman  lent  to  his 
modesty  and  winsomeness  a  freedom  and  vigor  that  proved 
irresistibly  fascinating.  Naturally  enough,  in  answer  to  the 


iv  OUTLINE   OF   THE  LIFE   OF  BURNS. 

demand  of  his  worshipers,  a  second  edition  of  his  poems 
was  published  within  six  months  of  his  coming  to  the  Scot- 
tish capital.  In  spite  of  all  this  flattering  attention,  Burns 
did  not  once  lose  his  head. 

During  the  summer  and  autumn  he  traveled  in  Scotland. 
After  a  Border  tour,  a  brief  visit  with  his  family  at  Mossgiel, 
and  three  Highland  tours,  he  returned  to  Edinburgh  to 
spend  the  winter. 

To  one  whose  interest  in  the  localities  of  Scottish  song 
was  so  keen,  the  excursion  must  have  been  profitable  in 
many  ways,  and  it  was  altogether  timely,  for  Burns  had 
begun  to  specialize.  He  had  tried  his  hand  at  satirical, 
descriptive,  and  lyrical  verse.  But  now  he  was  busily  col- 
lecting material  for  the  occupation  on  which  he  was  to 
focus  his  energy  in  the  future.  Hitherto  a  poet,  he  was 
henceforth  to  be  a  singer. 

About  the  second  winter  in  Edinburgh  there  is  little 
glamor.  The  aristocracy  were  not  so  hospitable,  but  Burns 
was  prepared  for  their  coolness.  Whatever  his  friends 
might  have  done  for  him,  had  he  asked  assistance,  it  is 
to  his  credit  that  he  accepted  their  freely  offered  aid  in 
helping  him  to  a  farm  and  a  position  in  the  excise  so  grace- 
fully that  they  seemed  to  think  they  were  giving  him  what 
he  was  eager  to  get,  instead  of  what  he  was  patiently  making 
up  his  mind  to  endure. 

Burns  was  by  no  means  unhappy  when  he  married  Jean 
Armour  and  settled  down  on  the  farm  at  Ellisland.  As 
exciseman  he  had  to  ride  some  two  hundred  miles  a  week, 
and  naturally  people  took  pride  in  entertaining  a  guest  at 
once  so  distinguished  and  so  agreeable.  After  a  stormy 
day's  travel  it  must  have  been  real  recreation  for  the  poet 
to  doff  his  official  dignity  and  enter  heartily  into  the  home 
life  of  friends,  sometimes  opening  his  whole  soul  in  his 
artless  way. 


OUTLINE   OF  THE  LIFE   OF  BURNS.  v 

But  his  duties  did  not  always  keep  the  real  man  in  the  back- 
ground. A  diligent  officer,  severe  with  regular  smugglers, 
he  was  merciful  Robert  Burns  when  he  dealt  with  country 
brewers  and  retailers.  He  also  took  delight  in  working  for 
the  permanent  good  of  his  fellow-men.  Long  before  there 
was  any  national  movement  in  this  direction,  he  set  on  foot 
a  plan  for  the  intellectual  improvement  of  the  community 
by  taking  an  active  part  in  establishing  a  public  library. 
And  while  trying  to  do  the  work  of  two  or  three  men,  one 
day  seizing  a  cargo  of  tobacco  from  an  unlucky  smuggler, 
the  next  punishing  some  poor  wretch  for  selling  liquor  with- 
out a  license,  the  same  evening  writing  a  beautiful  poem,  he 
did  not  lose  sight  of  his  high  ideal  of  the  mission  of  a  poet. 
As  in  his  Mossgiel  days,  he  still  "  rhymed  for  fun";  he  often 
wrote  as  a  favor  to  a  friend,  but  he  could  not  bear  the 
thought  of  writing  for  money. 

During  this  period  of  hard  work  he  had  been  buoyed  up 
by  the  hope  of  promotion,  but  he  found  he  must  for  the 
present  give  up  the  longed-for  supervisorship  and  content 
himself  with  being  an  ordinary  exciseman  in  Dumfries. 
Upon  receiving  the  appointment,  with  a  salary  of  seventy 
pounds,  he  gave  up  the  farm,  which  had  proved  a  losing 
investment,  and  in  1791  took  a  house  of  three  rooms  in  this 
little  town. 

It  was  a  time  of  revolution  ;  a  time  when  quiet,  pensive 
poets  were  stirred  to  their  hearts'  core.  The  excitement  of 
the  patriotic  Burns,  keenly  sensitive  to  the  welfare  of  Scot- 
land, and  especially  of  her  peasants,  at  times  knew  no 
bounds.  His  sympathy  for  those  who  were  trying  to  secure 
their  rights  through  the  French  Revolution  led  to  vigorous 
expressions  of  his  ideas  of  liberty.  Yet  he  was  a  govern- 
ment official.  Loyal  as  he  was,  he  was  accused  of  disloyalty, 
and  came  very  near  losing  his  position.  The  tongue-tied 
poet  felt  keenly  that  the  world  was  going  wrong  and  that  he 


vi  OUTLINE   OF  THE  LIFE    OF  BURNS. 

x 

was  in  no  position  to  help  right  it.  But  the  storm  blew 
over;  Burns  afterwards  took  an  active  part  in  fighting  for  a 
Liberal  in  an  election  contest,  and  those  friends  who  had 
carefully  prevented  the  printing  of  many  of  his  productions 
allowed  the  publication  of  several  ballads  that  once  would 
have  been  condemned. 

There  were  intervals  during  this  period  in  which  he  did 
almost  no  literary  work.  Much  of  his  time  was  spent  in 
helping  Johnson  make  his  collection  of  songs  for  his  Scots 
Musical  Museum  and  in  contributing  to  Thomson's  more 
ambitious  and  better  edited  work,  the  Melodies  of  Scotland. 
Meanwhile  he  was  growing  more  melancholy.  After  settling 
in  Dumfries  the  family  lived  in  comparative  comfort,  yet 
toward  the  end  of  his  life  they  were  reduced  to  narrow 
straits.  Outside  of  his  home  he  had  to  encounter  the  con- 
tempt of  the  Dumfries  aristocracy,  but  he  recovered  from 
their  abuse  and  refused  to  part  with  his  good  humor.  In 
his  gloom  he  sought  relief  in  "  the  merry  song  and  the  flow- 
ing bowl."  At  times  he  got  real  help  and  comfort  and  hope 
from  religion.  It  was  under  such  circumstances  that  he 
kept  on  writing  songs. 

Scotland  had  waited  for  her  poet  till  the  latter  half  of  the 
eighteenth  century  —  a  long  time.  Even  then  he  was  des- 
tined to  lead  a  life  of  incessant  toil  as  a  farmer  and  gauger, 
while  his  real  work  had  to  be  done  incidentally.  His 
friends,  recognizing  his  genius,  had  introduceH  him  to 
Edinburgh,  and  so  to  Scotland  ;  he  was  becoming  widely 
known,  and  was  doing  some  of  his  best  work,  when,  at  the 
age  of  thirty-seven,  he  suddenly  died. 


OUTLINE    OF   THE    LIFE   OF    CARLYLE. 


Thomas  Carlyle,  born  in  1795,  seven  months  before  Burns 
died,  was  the  son  of  a  frugal,  undemonstrative  father,  a  stone 
mason,  and  a  worthy,  intelligent  mother.  At  their  home  in 
Ecclefechan  his  mother  taught  him  to  read,  his  father  to 
count.  In  his  seventh  year  the  report  came  from  the 
village  school  that  he  was  "complete  "in  English.  In  1809, 
after  three  years  at  a  "  doleful  and  hateful  Academy,"  he 
began  his  five  years'  hermit  course  at  Edinburgh  University. 
He  studied  for  the  ministry,  as  his  father  wished,  but  could 
not  conscientiously  make  that  his  life  work.  He  says  of 
this  miserable  period,  "  I  was  without  friends,  experience, 
or  connection  in  the  sphere  of  human  business,  was  of  sly 
humor,  proud  enough  and  to  spare,  and  ha'd  begun  my 
long  curriculum  of  dyspepsia  which  has  never  ended  since." 
The  question  was,  what  should  he  do  for  a  living  ?  The 
very  difficulties  in  the  way  spurred  him  on  to  become  a 
lawyer.  To  study  law  he  needed  money.  To  earn  the 
money  he  taught  school.  But  he  could  not  tolerate  the 
schoolmaster's  drudgery,  and  gave  up  teaching ;  mean- 
while he  had  studied  law  long  enough  to  abandon  it  gladly 
on  the  ground  that  its  miseries  would  lead  to  no  reward  but 
money. 

At  this  point  in  his  career  Carlyle  received  substantial 
help  from  others.  He  owed  much  to  a  college  friend, 
Edward  Irving,  who  introduced  him  to  Miss  Jane  Welsh, 


viii  OUTLINE   OF  THE  LIFE   OF  CARLYLE. 

the  witty,  fascinating  daughter  of  a  country  surgeon.  The 
next  year  Irving  helped  him  to  some  tutoring  in  London. 
He  soon  gave  that  up  for  literary  work.  Dyspepsia  and 
"  the  noises  "  drove  him  from  the  metropolis  to  a  little  farm 
at  Hoddam  Hill.  There  he  spent  a  quiet  year  making 
translations  from  the  German.  Forty  years  later  he  referred 
to  it  as  "  perhaps  the  most  triumphantly  important  "  of  his 
life.  "  He  was  building  up  his  character,"  says  Mr.  John 
Nichol,  "  and  forming  the  opinions  which,  with  few  mate- 
rial changes,  he  long  continued  to  hold."  He  found  his 
skepticisms  and  his  agonizing  doubtings  giving  way  to  quiet, 
spontaneous  communings  with  Nature. 

After  many  wearisome  attempts  to  obtain  recognition  he 
saw  that  his  life  work  was  to  be  literature.  In  1826,  at  the 
age  of  thirty-one,  he  married  Miss  Welsh.  They  began 
housekeeping  in  a  cottage  at  Comely  Bank,  Edinburgh. 
Mrs.  Carlyle  was  so  charming  a  hostess  that  she  attracted 
to  their  home  more  than  one  literary  friend.  Among  the 
most  devoted  was  Jeffrey,  the  editor  of  the  Edinburgh 
Review.  Before  the  end  of  another  year,  Carlyle  had  made 
the  beginning  of  a  literary  reputation.  For  no  sympathy 
was  the  young,  struggling  writer  more  grateful  than  for  the 
genuine  admiration  shown  by  Goethe,  foremost  genius  of 
the  age,  who  recognized  him  as  "  a  moral  force  of  great 
importance." 

But  so  far  he  had  made  only  a  beginning.  He  received 
so  little  for  his  writings  that,  for  the  sake  of  economy  and 
quiet,  he  -retired  to  Craigenputtock.  '  Here  it  was,  fifteen 
miles  from  Dumfries,  five  from  the  nearest  neighbor,  in  a 
farmhouse  amidst  the  dreary  moorland,  that  Carlyle  wrote 
the  Essay  on  Burns.  It  appeared  in  the  Edinburgh  Review 
in  December,  1828.  During  his  six  years  of  Craigenputtock 
life,  the  monotony  of  which  was  relieved  by  Emerson's 
memorable  visit  and  several  months  spent  in  London  and 


OUTLINE   OF   THE   LIFE   OF  CARLYLE.  ix 

Edinburgh,  he  wrote  most  of  his  biographical  and  critical 
essays  and  Sartor  Resartus. 

His  youth  had  been  spent  amid  bleak  surroundings  under 
the  care  of  parents  whom  he  revered  and  loved.  Then  came 
the  struggle  to  know  himself  and  to  determine  his  position 
in  the  universe.  All  this  prepared  the  way  for  his  life  in 
London. 

He  went  to  London  in  1834  with  little  fame,  less  money, 
and  few  friends.  He  had  written  the  French  Revolution  and 
Hero-  Worship,  and  had  resorted  to  the  ugly  expedient  of 
lecturing,  before  the  tardy  recognition  of  the  value  of  his 
work  insured  him  a  living.  He  still  worked  industriously, 
producing  literature  that  gave  abundant  evidence  of  his 
independence  in  politics  and  religion.  Then  came  the 
death  of  his  mother,  who,  and  who  only,  says  Froude,  "  had 
stood  between  him  and  the  loneliness  of  which  he  had  so 
often  and  so  passionately  complained." 

He  withdrew  from  the  world  more*  than  ever  for  the 
"  desperate  dead-lift  pull "  with  his  great  History  of  Frie- 
drich  II.  The  result  of  his  painful  struggles  was  a  triumph 
recognized  in  Scotland,  England,  and  Germany.  His  own 
countrymen  eagerly  elected  him  Lord  Rector  of  Edinburgh. 
His  unique  address  to  the  students  excited  unbounded 
enthusiasm.  It  was  the  proudest,  most  joyous  day  of  his 
life.  But  in  the  midst  of  his  triumph  his  wife  died. 
Stunned  by  her  sudden  death,  he  realized  for  the  first 
time  what  she  had  been  to  him.  He  entered  without 
warning  the  saddest  period  of  his  life.  His  fame  was 
secure,  but  it  had  come  too  late.  He  cared  little  for  it  now 
that  he  could  not  share  it  with  her.  Success  and  failure 
were  empty  sounds.  Yet  the  last  years  have  an  interest  of 
their  own.  He  had  always  been  benevolent,  eager  to  help 
the  working  classes  ;  and  as  his  own  affliction  increased  he 
became  still  more  eager  to  aid  those  in  distress.  Nor  was 


x  OUTLINE   OF  THE  LIFE   OF  CARLYLE. 

he  himself  neglected.  Painters,  sculptors,  literary  men,  and 
disciples  were  bent  on  preserving  the  fame  of  the  venerable 
Chelsea  Prophet.  Best  of  all,  firm  friends  stood  by  him  in 
his  need  and  comforted  him.  Clearly,  he  did  not  find  age  a 
"  crown  of  thorns  ";  yet  he  was  haunted  by 

"  To-morrow  and  to-morrow  and  to-morrow." 

He  died  in  February,  1881,  at  the  age  of  eighty-five.  In 
accordance  with  his  own  wish,  he  was  buried  in  Ecclefechan 
with  his  kindred,  rather  than  in  Westminster  Abbey. 


BURNS   AND    CARLYLE. 


WE  naturally  ask  why  Carlyle  should  write  an  account  of 
Burns.  He  was  preeminently  the  man  to  do  it.  The  two 
men  had  much  in  common.  In  the  first  place,  they  were 
Scotchmen  ;  more  than  that,  they  were  Lowlanders.  Of 
peasant  birth,  they  began  life  in  insignificant  hamlets,  and 
were  brought  up  under  similar  home  influences.  Both 
had  fathers  notable  for  their  integrity  and  independence. 
Neither  was  much  indebted  to  the  schools  for  his  early 
education,  but  both  were  helped  and  encouraged  by  far- 
seeing,  ambitious  parents.  The  lads  enjoyed  books  and 
read  eagerly  and  widely.  So  much  for  their  boyhood. 

Each  had  to,  fight  for  a  place  in  the  world.  Carlyle 
struggled  for  several  years  to  secure  a  meager  competence. 
With  all  his  hard  work,  Burns  barely  made  a  living.  The 
following  statement  about  Carlyle  applies  quite  as  well  to 
Burns  :  He  rose  —  "  not  by  birth  or  favor,  not  on  the  ladder 
of  any  established  profession,  but  only  by  the  internal  force 
that  was  in  him  —  to  the  highest  place  as  a  modern  man  of 
letters." 

Both  were  entertained  at  the  Scottish  capital,  and  both 
stood  the  test.  Burns  was  not  spoiled  ;  Carlyle  was  bored. 
In  his  Reminiscences,  the  dyspeptic  writes  of  the  "  effulgences 
of  '  Edinburgh  society,'  big  dinners,  parties,"  that  it  all  passed 
away  as  "an  obliging  pageant  merely."  In  spite  of  it,  Burns 
retained  his  sincerity,  his  "indisputable  air  of  Truth";  in 
spite  of  it,  too,  Carlyle  remained  thoroughly  genuine. 


xii  BURNS  AND   CARLYLE. 

Toward  mankind  their  attitudes  were  very  different,  but 
neither  hesitated  to  say  just  what  he  thought  of  persons  he 
did  not  like  ;  neither  wasted  any  sympathy  on  the  upper 
classes  ;  both  urged  them  to  remember  that  those  under 
them  were  human  and  were  to  be  treated  as  men.  Yet 
neither  derived  entire  satisfaction  from  his  relations  with  his 
fellows.  Both  were  often  heavy-hearted.  The  melancholy 
of  the  one  is  as  genuine  as  the  melancholy  of  the  other. 
Burns  had  the  happy  faculty  of  turning  his  into  gayety,  but 
Carlyle,  with  all  his  humor,  could  get  only  partial  relief. 

Both  are  said  to  have  been  lovable  men.  We  know 
Burns  must  have  been  particularly  lovable,  and  we  may  be 
interested  in  the  testimony  of  an  Aberdonian,  who  said,  "  I 
knew  Carlyle,  and  I  aver  to  you  that  his  heart  was  as 
large  and  generous  as  his  brain  was  powerful ;  that  he  was 
essentially  a  most  lovable  man,  and  that  there  were  depths 
of  tenderness,  kindliness,  benevolence,  and  most  delicate 
courtesy  in  him,  with  all  his  seeming  ruggedness  and  stern- 
ness, such  as  I  have  found  throughout  my  life  rarely  in  any 
human  being."  Mr.  Froude  says  that  when  we  know  him 
fully,  we  shall  not  love  or  admire  him  the  less  "because  he 
had  infirmities  like  the  rest  of  us." 

We  recognize  Burns  as  a  natural  poet.  "  The  intensity  of 
Carlyle's  vision,"  says  Mr.  John  Nichol,  "  was  that  of  a  born 
artist."  He  adds,  "  None  of  our  poets,  from  Chaucer  and 
Dunbar  to  Burns  and  Tennyson,  have  been  more  alive  to 
the  influences  of  external  nature." 

As  men  of  genius,  they  have  been  grouped,  not  with  the 
Miltons  and  the  Shaksperes,  but  with  those  who  are  like 
"  the  wind-harp  which  answers  to  the  breath  that  touches  it, 
now  low  and  sweet,  now  rising  into  wild  swell  or  angry 
scream,  as  the  strings  are  swept  by  some  passing  gust." 

Burns  was  a  prophet-poet.  He  saw  and  thought  and 
spoke  for  the  world.  In  the  vigorous  Scotch  way,  he  "  spoke 


BURNS  AND    CARLYLE.  xiii 

out."  Carlyle  was  a  prophet.  "The  mission  of  the 
Hebrew  prophet,"  says  Mr.  Macpherson,  "  was  by  passion- 
ate utterance  to  keep  alive  in  the  minds  of  his  countrymen 
a  deep,  abiding  sense  of  life's  mystery,  sacredness,  and 
solemnity.  What  Isaiah  did  for  his  day  Carlyle  did  for 
the  moderns." 

Such  was  the  man,  then,  who  helps  us  interpret  Scotland's 
darling  poet.  Carlyle  speaks  for  Scotland.  His  is  the 
tender  voice  of  the  fond  mother,  who,  though  confident  that 

her  son, 

"  Who  lives  immortal  in  the  hearts  of  men," 

will  never  die,  yet  loves  to  tell  us,  her  eyes  now  tearful,  now 
glowing  with  a  mother's  pride,  about  her  boy.  All  this  so 
simply,  so  naturally,  so  heartily,  with  a  pathos  like  Burns's 
own  that  softens  beautifully  the  stern,  rugged  Carlyle. 


It  would  be  difficult  to  find  two  great  men  about  whom 
there  has  been  more  difference  of  opinion.  Carlyle  has 
been  called  "  about  the  most  cantankerous  Scotchman  that 
ever  maltreated  the  English  tongue."  Mr.  Richard  Garnett, 
on  the  other  hand,  says  that  Carlyle's  supremacy  as  a  literary 
genius  is  attested  by  the  fact  that  he  is  one  of  the  very  few 
in  whose  hands  language  is  wholly  flexible  and  fusible,  and 
adds,  "  Great  and  deathless  writer  as  he  was,  he  will  be 
honored  by  posterity  for  his  influence  on  human  life  rather 
than  for  his  supremacy  as  a  literary  artist."  As  to  this  in- 
fluence on  human  life,  the  dying  witness  of  John  Sterling  was  : 
"  Towards  England  no  man  has  been  and  done  like  you." 
And  Froude  once  wrote  :  "Leaving  out  Goethe,  Carlyle  was 
indisputably  the  greatest  man  (if  you  measure  greatness  by 
the  permanent  effect  he  has  and  will  produce  on  the  minds 


xiv  BURNS  AND   CARLYLE. 

of  mankind)  who  has  appeared  in  Europe  for  centuries. 
His  character  was  as  remarkable  as  his  intellect.  There 
has  been  no  man  at  all,  not  Goethe  himself,  who  in  thought 
and  action  was  so  consistently  true  to  his  noblest  instincts." 
As  for  Burns,  criticise  him  as  severely  as  you  please, 
some  of  his  best  poetry  will  live  forever  as  pure  poetry. 
Wordsworth  is  not  the  only  one  whom  Burns  has  shown 

"  How  verse  may  build  a  princely  throne 
On  humble  truth," 

and  careless,  even  indifferent  readers  can  hardly  help  feel- 
ing that  in  some  of  his  work 

"  the  passion  and  the  pain 
Of  hearts  that  long  have  ceased  to  beat  remain 
To  throb  in  hearts  that  are,  or  are  to  be." 

There  was  nothing  half-hearted  about  him.  If  he  was 
independent,  he  was  so  independent  that  "no  man  ever 
«existed  who  could  look  down  on  him.  They  that  looked 
into  his  eyes  saw  that  they  might  look  down  the  sky  as 
easily."  In  striking  confrast  to  this  fearlessness  was  his 
sympathy, — Burns's  sympathy,  large,  whole-souled,  world- 
wide, enough  for  all  mankind,  with  plenty  to  spare  for  every 
living  thing,  and  a  drop  left  over  for  the  deil. 

If  at  times  he  turned  teacher,  his  teaching  was  sound, 
and  so  effective  that  it  was  not  to  be  forgotten.  To  be 
sure,  he  used  satire  so  vigorously  that  he  shocked  some 
of  his  readers.  That  was  their  fault,  not  Burns's ;  they 
needed  the  shaking  up.  But  one  cannot  separate  his  satire 
from  his  humor,  —  his  joyous,  rollicking,  irresistible  humor. 
"  His  humor  and  his  wit  scorched  into  cinders  whole  heca- 
tombs of  hypocrites  and  knaves,  and  his  name  is  one  at 
which  '  Holy  Willies  '  of  all  degrees  and  homicidal  Dr. 
Hornbrooks,  both  with  and  without  degrees,  ought  to 
tremble." 


BURNS  AND   CARLYLE.  XV 

How  naturally  and  fully  these  characteristics  blend  in 
Burns,  —  humor,  wit,  good  sense,  satire,  independence,  sym- 
pathy, —  above  all,  sympathy  ! 

He  was  a  man  who  knew  men  and  how  to  appeal  to  men. 
When  he  spoke  to  his  neighbors,  he  spoke  with  a  voice  that 
men  everywhere  understood.  He  has  been  called  provin- 
cial ;  he  was  also  national  and  universal.  And  I  care  not 
how  many  are  our  expressions  of  admiration  for  his  love  of 
nature,  his  descriptions  of  scenery,  his  graphic  power,  his 
terse,  lucid,  forcible,  often  elegant  style ;  back  of  the  great 
artist  we  must  see  the  sincere  man  in  his  own  simple  way 
dealing  directly  with  human  life. 

His  earlier  work  consisted  largely  of  satires,  descriptions 
of  country  life,  and  epistles.  Afterward  he  drifted  more 
and  more  into  song-writing.  It  may  be  worth  while  to  con- 
sider the  question  whether  the  miscellaneous  poems  show 
more  clearly  the  greatness  of  the  poet;  but  long  after  we 
have  forgotten  most  of  them,  I  fancy,  we  shall  be  sing- 
ing the  songs.  Exactly  why  it  may  be  hard  to  tell.  He 
expresses  beautifully  what  we  know  to  be  true.  He  sings 
tunefully  what  we  have  often  felt.  Other  poets  have  done 
this  for  us;  but  there  is  something  subtle  about  Burns's  way 
of  doing  it.  We  sometimes  feel  that  others  have  made  an 
effort  to  speak  for  us  and  to  please  us.  Somehow  we  get 
the  impression  that  Burns's  writing  was  as  unstudied,  as 
natural,  as  spontaneous  as  his  breathing.  Many  of  the 
songs  seem  to  have  written  themselves,  and  we  find  our- 
selves singing  them  as  if  they  were  our  own.  Other  poets 
we  like  and  admire;  to  some  extent  we  may  make  them 
ours  —  Burns  in  his  own  winning  way  charms  us;  before  we 
know  it,  we  are  his. 


BURNS.1 

[1828.] 

IN  the  modern  arrangements  of  society,  it  is  no  uncom- 
mon thing  that  a  man  of  genius  must,  like  Butler,  'ask 
for  bread  and  receive  a  stone ;'  for,  in  spite  of  our  grand 
maxim  of  supply  and  demand,  it  is  by  no  means  the 
highest  excellence  that  men  are  most  forward  to  recognise.  5 
The  inventor  of  a  spinning-jenny  is  pretty  sure  of  his 
reward  in  his  own  day;  but  the  writer  of  a  true  poem,  like 
the  apostle  of  a  true  religion,  is  nearly  as  sure  of  the 
contrary.  We  do  not  know  whether  it  is  not  an  aggra- 
vation of  the  injustice,  that  there  is  generally  a  posthu-  10 
mous  retribution.  Robert  Burns,  in  the  course  of  Nature, 
might  yet  have  been  living ;  but  his  short  life  was  spent 
in  toil  and  penury ;  and  he  died,  in  the  prime  of  his  man- 
hood, miserable  and  neglected:  and  yet  already  a  brave 
mausoleum  shines  over  his  dust,  and  more  than  one  15 
splendid  monument  has  been  reared  in  other  places  to 
his  fame ;  the  street  where  he  languished  in  poverty  is 
called  by  his  name ;  the  highest  personages  in  our  litera- 
ture have  been  proud  to  appear  as  his  commentators  and 
admirers ;  and  here  is  the  sixth  narrative  of  his  Life  that  20 
has  been  given  to  the  world ! 

Mr.  Lockhart  thinks  it  necessary  to  apologise  for  this 
new   attempt  on  such  a  subject :    but   his   readers,   we 
believe,  will  readily  acquit  him  ;  or,  at  worst,  will  censure 
only  the  performance  of  his  task,  not  the  choice  of  it.  25 
The  character  of  Burns,  indeed,  is  a  theme  that  cannot 

1  EDINBURGH  REVIEW,  No.  96.  —  The  Life  of  Robert  Burns.     By 
J.  G.  Lockhart,  LL.B.     Edinburgh,  1828. 


2  BURNS. 

easily  become  either  trite  or  exhausted  ;  and  will  probably 
gain  rather  than  lose  in  its  dimensions  by  the  distance  to 
which  it  is  removed  by  Time.  No  man,  it  has  been  said, 
is  a  hero  to  his  valet ;  and  this  is  probably  true ;  but  the 
5  fault  is  at  least  as  likely  to  be  the  valet's  as  the  hero's. 
For  it  is  certain,  that  to  the  vulgar  eye  few  things  are 
wonderful  that  are  not  distant.  It  is  difficult  for  men  to 
believe  that  the  man,  the  mere  man  whom  they  see,  nay 
perhaps  painfully  feel,  toiling  at  their  side  through  the 

10  poor  jostlings  of  existence,  can  be  made  of  finer  clay  than 
themselves.  Suppose  that  some  dining  acquaintance  of 
Sir  Thomas  Lucy's,  and  neighbour  of  John  a  Combe's,  had 
snatched  an  hour  or  two  from  the  preservation  of  his 
game,  and  written  us  a  Life  of  Shakspeare!  What 

15  dissertations  should  we  not  have  had, — not  on  Hamlet 
and  The  Tempest,  but  on  the  wool-trade,  and  deer-stealing, 
and  the  libel  and  vagrant  laws  ;  and  how  the  Poacher 
became  a  Player ;  and  how  Sir  Thomas  and  Mr.  John  had 
Christian  bowels,  and  did  not  push  him  to  extremities  ! 

20  In  like  manner,  we  believe,  with  respect  to  Burns,  that 
till  the  companions  of  his  pilgrimage,  the  Honourable 
Excise  Commissioners,  and  the  Gentlemen  of  the  Cale- 
donian Hunt,  and  the  Dumfries  Aristocracy,  and  all  the 
Squires  and  Earls,  equally  with  the  Ayr  Writers,  and  the 

25  New  and  Old  Light  Clergy,  whom  he  had  to  do  with 
shall  have  become  invisible  in  the  darkness  of  the  Past, 
or  visible  only  by  light  borrowed  from  his  juxtaposition, 
it  will  be  difficult  to  measure  him  by  any  true  standard, 
or  to  estimate  what  he  really  was  and  did,  in  the 

30  eighteenth  century,  for  his  country  and  the  world.  It 
will  be  difficult,  we  say;  but  still  a  fair  problem  for 
literary  historians;  and  repeated  attempts  will  give  us 
repeated  approximations. 

His   former    Biographers    have   done    something,    no 


8UKNS.  3 

doubt,  but  by  no  means  a  great  deal,  to  assist  us.  Dr. 
Currie  and  Mr.  Walker,  the  principal  of  these  writers,  have 
both,  we  think,  mistaken  one  essentially  important  thing: 
Their  own  and  the  world's  true  relation  to  their  author, 
and  the  style  in  which  it  became  such  men  to  think  and  5 
to  speak  of  such  a  man.  Dr.  Currie  loved  the  poet  truly; 
more  perhaps  than  he  avowed  to  his  readers,  or  even  to 
himself ;  yet  he  everywhere  introduces  him  with  a  certain 
patronising,  apologetic  air;  as  if  the  polite  public  might 
think  it  strange  and  half  unwarrantable  that  he,  a  man  of  10 
science,  a  scholar  and  gentleman,  should  do  such  honour 
to  a  rustic.  In  all  this,  however,  we  readily  admit  that 
his  fault  was  not  want  of  love,  but  weakness  of  faith;  and 
regret  that  the  first  and  kindest  of  all  our  poet's 
biographers  should  not  have  seen  farther,  or  believed  15 
more  boldly  what  he  saw.  Mr.  Walker  offends  more 
deeply  in  the  same  kind:  and  both  err  alike  in  presenting 
us  with  a  detached  catalogue  of  his  several  supposed 
attributes,  virtues  and  vices,  instead  of  a  delineation  of 
the  resulting  character  as  a  living  unity.  This,  however,  20 
is  not  painting  a  portrait ;  but  gauging  the  length  and 
breadth  of  the  several  features,  and  jotting  down  their 
dimensions  in  arithmetical  ciphers.  Nay  it  is  not  so 
much  as  that  :  for  we  are  yet  to  learn  by  what  arts  or 
instruments  the  mind  could be  so  measured  and  gauged.  25 

Mr.  Lockhart,  we  are  happy  to  say,  has  avoided  both 
these  errors.  He  uniformly  treats  Burns  as  the  high 
and  remarkable  man  the  public  voice  has  now  pronounced 
him  to  be :  and  in  delineating  him,  he  has  avoided  the 
method  of  separate  generalities,  and  rather  sought  for  30 
characteristic  incidents,  habits,  actions,  sayings;  in  a 
word,  for  aspects  which  exhibit  the  whole  man,  as  he 
looked  and  lived  among  his  fellows.  The  book  accord- 
ingly, with  all  its  deficiencies,  gives  more  insight,  we 


4  BURNS. 

think,  into  the  true  character  of  Burns,  than  any  prior 
biography :  though,  being  written  on  the  very  popular 
and  condensed  scheme  of  an  article  for  Constable's  Mis- 
cellany, it  has  less  depth  than  we  could  have  wished  and 
5  expected  from  a  writer  of  such  power ;  and  contains 
rather  more,  and  more  multifarious  quotations  than 
belong  of  right  to  an  original  production.  Indeed, 
Mr.  Lockhart's  own  writing  is  generally  so  good,  so  clear, 
direct  and  nervous,  that  we  seldom  wish  to  see  it  making 

10  place  for  another  man's.  However,  the  spirit  of  the  work 
is  throughout  candid,  tolerant  and  anxiously  conciliat- 
ing ;  compliments  and  praises  are  liberally  distributed, 
on  all  hands,  to  great  and  small  ;  and,  as  Mr.  Morris 
Birkbeck  observes  of  the  society  in  the  backwoods  of 

15  America,  'the  courtesies  of  polite  life  are  never  lost  sight 
of  for  a  moment.'  But  there  are  better  things  than  these 
in  the  volume ;  and  we  can  safely  testify,  not  only  that  it 
is  easily  and  pleasantly  read  a  first  time,  but  may  even  be 
without  difficulty  read  again. 

20  Nevertheless,  we  are  far  from  thinking  that  the  prob- 
lem of  Burns's  Biography  has  yet  been  adequately  solved. 
We  do  not  allude  so  much  to  deficiency  of  facts  or  doc- 
uments, —  though  of  these  we  are  still  every  day  re- 
ceiving some  fresh  accession,  —  as  to  the  limited  and 

25  imperfect  application  of  them  to  the  great  end  of  Biog- 
raphy. Our  notions  upon  this  subject  may  perhaps 
appear  extravagant  ;  but  if  an  individual  is  really  of 
consequence  enough  to  have  his  Ufe  and  character  re- 
corded for  public  remembrance/ we  have  always  been 

30  of  opinion  that  the  public  ought  to"15e  made  acquainted 
with  all  the  inward  springs  and  relations  of  his  charac- 
ter. How  did  the  world  and  man's  life,  from  his  par- 
ticular position,  represent  themselves  to  his  mindT^How 
did  coexisting  circumstances  modify  him  from  without  j 


BURNS. 

. 

how  did  he  modify  these  from  within  $v  With  what  en- 
deavours and  what  efficacy  rule  over"~~them ;  with 
what  resistance  and  what  suffering  sink  under  them? 
In  one  word,  what  and  how  produced  was  the  effect  of 
society  on  him  ;  what  and  how  produced  was  his  effect  5 
on  society  ?  JHe  who  should  answer  these  questions,  in 
regard  to-~any  individual,  would,  as  we  believe,  furnish  a 
model  of  perfection  in  Biography.  Few  individuals,  in- 
deed, can  deserve  such  a  study ;  and  many  lives  will  be 
written,  and,  for  the  gratification  of  innocent  curiosity,  10 
ought  to  be  written,  and  read  and  forgotten,  which  are 
not  in  this  sense  biographies.  But  Burns,  if  we  mistake 
not,  is  one  of  these  few  individuals  ;  and  such  a  study, 
at  least  with  such  a  result,  he  has  not  yet  obtained. 
Our  own  contributions  to  it,  we  are  aware,  can  be  but  15 
scanty  and  feeble  ;  but  we  offer  them  with  good-will, 
and  trust  they  may  meet  with  acceptance  from  those  they 
are  intended  for. 

Burns  first  came  upon  the  world  as  a  prodigy  ;    and  20 
was,  in   that  character,  entertained   by  it,  in   the   usual 
fashion,  with  loud,   vague,  tumultuous  wonder,    speedily 
subsiding  into  censure  and  neglect ;    till  his  early  and 
most  mournful  death  again  awakened  an  enthusiasm  for 
him,  which,  especially  as  there  was  now  nothing  to  be  25 
done,  and  much  to  be  spoken,  has  prolonged  itself  even 
to  our  own  time.     It  is  true,  the  '  nine  days '  have  long 
since  elapsed  ;  and  the  very  continuance  of  this  clamour 
proves  that  Burns  was  no  vulgar  wonder.     Accordingly, 
even  in  sober  judgments,  where,  as  years  passed  by,  he  30 
has  come  to  rest  more  and  more  exclusively  on  his  own 
intrinsic  merits,  and  may  now  be  well-nigh  shorn  of  that 
casual  radiance,  he  appears   not  only  as  a  true  British 
poet,  but  as  one  of  the  most  considerable  British  men  of 


6  BURNS. 

the  eighteenth  century.  Let  it  not  be  objected  that  he 
did  little.  He  did  much,  if  we  consider  where  and  how. 
If  the  work  performed  was  small,  we  must  remember 
that  he  had  his  very  materials  to  discover ;  for  the  metal 
5  he  worked  in  lay  hid  under  the  desert  moor,  where  no  eye 
but  his  had  guessed  its  existence ;  and  we  may  almost 
say,  that  with  his  own  hand  he  had  to  construct  the  tools 
for  fashioning  it.  For  he  found  himself  in  deepest  ob- 
scurity, without  help,  without  instruction,  without  model ; 

TO  or  with  models  only  of  the  meanest  sort.  An  edu- 
cated man  stands,  as  it  were,  in  the  midst  of  a  boundless 
arsenal  and  magazine,  filled  with  all  the  weapons  and 
engines  which  man's  skill  has  been  able  to  devise  from 
the  earliest  time;  and  he  works,  accordingly,  with  a 

15  strength  borrowed  from  all  past  ages.  How  different  is 
his  state  who  stands  on  the  outside  of  that  storehouse, 
and  feels  that  its  gates  must  be  stormed,  or  remain  for- 
ever shut  against  him  !  His  means  are  the  commonest 
and  rudest ;  the  mere  work  done  is  no  measure  of  his 

20  strength.  A  dwarf  behind  his  steam-engine  may  remove 
mountains;  but  no  dwarf  will  hew  them  down  with  a 
pickaxe;  and  he  must  be  a  Titan  that  hurls  them  abroad 
with  his  arms. 

It  is  in  this  last  shape  that  Burns  presents  himself. 

25  Born  in  an  age  the  most  prosaic  Britain  had  yet  seen, 
and  in  a  condition  the  most  disadvantageous,  where  his 
mind,  if  it  accomplished  aught,  must  accomplish  it  under 
the  pressure  of  continual  bodily  toil,  nay  of  penury  and 
desponding  apprehension  of  the  worst  evils,  and  with  no 

30  furtherance  but  such  knowledge  as  dwells  in  a  poor 
man's  hut,  and  the  rhymes  of  a  Ferguson  or  Ramsay  for 
his  standard  of  beauty,  he  sinks  not  under  all  these  im- 
pediments: through  the  fogs  and  darkness  of  that  obscure 
region,  his  lynx  eye  discerns  the  true  relations  of  the 


BURNS.  7 

world  and  human  life ;  he  grows  into  intellectual 
strength,  and  trains  himself  into  intellectual  expert- 
ness.  Impelled  by  the  expansive  movement  of  his  own 
irrepressible  soul,  he  struggles  forward  into  the  general 
view ;  and  with  haughty  modesty  lays  down  before  us,  as  5 
the  fruit  of  his  labour,  a  gift,  which  Time  has  now  pro- 
nounced imperishable.  Add  to  all  this,  that  his  dark- 
some drudging  childhood  and  youth  was  by  far  the 
kindliest  era  of  his  whole  life;  and  that  he  died  in  his 
thirty-seventh  year:  and  then  ask,  If  it  be  strange  that  10 
his  poems  are  imperfect,  and  of  small  extent,  or  that  his 
genius  attained  no  mastery  in  its  art?  Alas,  his  Sun 
shone  as  through  a  tropical  tornado;  and  the  pale  Shadow 
of  Death  eclipsed  it  at  noon!  Shrouded  in  such  baleful 
vapours,  the  genius  of  Burns  was  never  seen  in  clear  azure  15 
splendour,  enlightening  the  world:  but  some  beams  from 
it  did,  by  fits,  pierce  through;  and  it  tinted  those  clouds 
with  rainbow  and  orient  colours,  into  a  glory  and  stern 
grandeur,  which  men  silently  gazed  on  with  wonder  and 
tears  !  20 

We  are  anxious  not  to  exaggerate ;  for  it  is  exposi- 
tion rather  than  admiration  that  our  readers  require  of 
us  here  ;  and  yet  to  avoid  some  tendency  to  that  side 
is  no  easy  matter.  We  love  Burns,  and  we  pity  him  ;  and 
love  and  pity  are  prone  to  magnify.  Criticism,  it  is  25 
sometimes  thought,  should  be  a  cold  business  ;  we  are 
not  so  sure  of  this  ;  but,  at  all  events,  our  concern  with 
Burns  -is  not  exclusively  that  of  critics.  True  and  genial 
as  his  poetry  must  appear,  it  is  not  chiefly  as  a  poet, 
but  as  a  man,  that  he  interests  and  affects  us.  He  was  30 
often  advised  to  write  a  tragedy  :  time  and  means  were 
not  lent  him  for  this ;  but  through  life  he  enacted  a 
tragedy,  and  one  of  the  deepest.  We  question  whether 
the  world  has  since  witnessed  so  utterly  sad  a  scene ; 


8  BURNS. 

whether  Napoleon  himself,  left  to  brawl  with  Sir  Hud- 
son Lowe,  and  perish  on  his  rock,  'amid  the  melan- 
choly main,'  presented  to  the  reflecting  mind  such  a 
*  spectacle  of  pity  and  fear'  as  did  this  intrinsically 
5  nobler,  gentler  and  perhaps  greater  soul,  wasting  itself 
away  in  a  hopeless  struggle  with  base  entanglements 
which  coiled  closer  and  closer  round  him,  till  only 
death  opened  him  an  outlet.  Conquerors  are  a  class 
of  men  with  whom,  for  most  part,  the  world  could  well 

10  dispense ;  nor  can  the  hard  intellect,  the  unsympathis- 
ing  loftiness  and  high  but  selfish  enthusiasm  of  such 
persons  inspire  us  in  general  with  any  affection ;  at  best 
it  may  excite  amazement;  and  their  fall,  like  that  of  a 
pyramid,  will  be  beheld  with  a  certain  sadness  and  awe. 

15  But  a  true  Poet,  a  man  in  whose  heart  resides  some  efflu- 
ence of  Wisdom,  some  tone  of  the  '  Eternal  Melodies,' 
is  the  most  precious  gift  that  can  be  bestowed  on  a 
generation:  we  see  in  him  a  freer,  purer  development 
of  whatever  is  noblest  in  ourselves;  his  life  is  a  rich 

20  lesson  to  us;  and  we  mourn  his  death  as  that  of  a  bene- 
factor who  loved  and  taught  us. 

Such  a  gift  had  Nature,  in  her  bounty,  bestowed  on 
us  in  Robert  Burns ;  but  with  queenlike  indifference  she 
cast  it  from  her  hand,  like  a  thing  of  no  moment;  and 

25  it  was  defaced  and  torn  asunder,  as  an  idle  bauble, 
before  we  recognised  it.  To  the  ill-starred  Burns  was 
given  the  power  of  making  man's  life  more  venerable, 
but  that  of  wisely  guiding  his  own  life  was  not  given. 
Destiny,  —  for  so  in  our  ignorance  we  must  speak,  —  his 

30  faults,  the  faults  of  others,  proved  too  hard  for  him;  and 
that  spirit  which  might  have  soared  could  it  but  have 
walked,  soon  sank  to  the  dust,  its  glorious  faculties 
trodden  under  foot  in  the  blossom;  and  died,  we  may 
almost  say,  without  ever  having  lived.  And  so  kind  and 


BURNS.  9 

warm  a  soul;  so  full  of  inborn  riches,  of  love  to  all  liv- 
ing and  lifeless  things  !      How  his  heart   flows  out  in 
sympathy  over  universal  Nature ;    and   in   her  bleakest 
provinces    discerns    a    beauty   and    a    meaning !      The 
*  Daisy '  falls  not  unheeded  under  his  ploughshare;  nor 
the  ruined  nest  of  that '  wee,  cowering,  timorous  beastie,' 
cast  forth,  after  all   its  provident  pains,   to  '  thole *  the 
sleety  dribble  and  cranreuch 2  cauld.'   The  '  hoar  visage  '      J 
of  Winter  delights  him ;    he  dwells  with  a  sad  and  oft-     \ 
returning  fondness  in  these  scenes  of  solemn  desolation;  10 
but  the  voice  of  the  tempest  becomes  an  anthem  to  his 
ears ;  he    loves  to  walk  in  the  sounding  woods,  for  'it     J 
raises  his  thoughts  to  Him  that  walketh  on  the  wings  of 
the  wind.'    A   true    Poet-soul,  for   it   needs   but  to    be 
struck,  and  the  sound  it  yields  will  be  music  !     But  ob-  15 
serve  him   chiefly  as  he  mingles  with  his  brother  men. 
What  warm,  all-comprehending  fellow-feeling;  what  trust-   \ 
ful,  boundless  love;    what  generous  exaggeration  of  the 
object  loved!     His  rustic  friend,  his  nut-brown  maiden, 
are  no  longer  mean  and  homely,  but  a  hero  and  a  queen,  20 
whom  he  prizes  as  the  paragons  of  Earth.     The  rough 
scenes  of  Scottish  life,  not  seen  by  him  in  any  Arcadian 
illusion,   but   in   the  rude   contradiction,    in    the  smoke 
and   soil  of  a  too  harsh  reality,  are  still  lovely  to  him: 
Poverty  is    indeed   his  companion,  but   Love   also,  and  25 
Courage;  the  simple  feelings,  the  worth,  the  nobleness, 
that  dwell  under  the  straw  roof,  are  dear  and  venerable 
to  his  heart:    and    thus  over   the   lowest    provinces   of 
man's  existence  he  pours  the   glory   of   his    own    soul; 
and  they  rise,  in   shadow   and   sunshine,  softened    and  30 
brightened  into  a  beauty  which  other  eyes  discern  not  in 
the  highest.     He  has  a  just  self-consciousness,  which  too 
often  degenerates  into  pride;   yet  it  is  a  noble  pride,  for 
1  Endure.  2  Hoarfrost. 


10  BUKNS. 

defence,  not  for  offence ;  no  cold  suspicious  feeling,  but 
a  frank  and  social  one.  The  Peasant  Poet  bears  him- 
self, we  might  say,  like  a  King  in  exile  :  he  is  cast  among 
the  low,  and  feels  himself  equal  to  the  highest ;  yet  he 
5  claims  no  rank,  that  none  may  be  disputed  to  him.  The 
forward  he  can  repel,  the  supercilious  he  can  subdue  ; 
pretensions  of  wealth  or  ancestry  are  of  no  avail  with 
him;  there  is  a  fire  in  that  dark  eye,  under  which  the 
'  insolence  of  condescension '  cannot  thrive.  In  his 

10  abasement,  in  his  extreme  need,  he  forgets  not  for  a 
moment  the  majesty  of  Poetry  and  Manhood.  And  yet, 
far  as  he  feels  himself  above  common  men,  he  wanders 
not  apart  from  them,  but  mixes  warmly  in  their  interests; 
nay  throws  himself  into  their  arms,  and,  as  it  were, 

15  entreats  them  to  love  him.  It  is  moving  to  see  how,  in 
his  darkest  despondency,  this  proud  being  still  seeks 
relief  from  friendship ;  unbosoms  himself  often  to  the 
unworthy ;  and,  amid  tears,  strains  to  his  glowing  heart  a 
heart  that  knows  only  the  name  of  friendship.  And  yet 

20  he  was  '  quick  to  learn ' ;  a  man  of  keen  vision,  before 
whom  common  disguises  afforded  no  concealment.  His 
understanding  saw  through  the  hollowness  even  of  accom- 
plished deceivers;  but  there  was  a  generous  credulity  in 
his  heart.  And  so  did  our  Peasant  show  himself  among 

25  us;  'a  soul  like  an  ^Eolian  harp,  in  whose  strings  the 
vulgar  wind,  as  it  passed  through  them,  changed  itself  into 
articulate  melody.'  And  this  was  he  for  whom  the  world 
found  no  fitter  business  than  quarrelling  with  smugglers 
and  vintners,  computing  excise-dues  upon  tallow,  and 

30  gauging  ale  barrels  !  In  such  toils  was  that  mighty 
Spirit  sorrowfully  wasted:  and  a  hundred  years  may  pass 
on  before  another  such  is  given  us  to  waste. 

All  that  remains  of  Burns,  the  Writings  he  has  left, 


BURNS.  11 

seem  to  us,  as  we  hinted  above,  no   more  than  a  poor  \ 
mutilated   fraction    of  what  was    in   him ;   brief,    broken 
glimpses  of  a  genius  that  could  never  show  itself  com- 
plete; that  wanted  all  things  for  completeness :   culture, 
leisure,  true  effort,  nay  even  length  of  life.     His  poems    k 
are,  with  scarcely  any  exception,  mere   occasional  effu- 
sions ;  poured  forth  with  little  premeditation ;  expressing, 
by  such  means  as  offered,  the  passion,  opinion,  or  humour 
of  the  hour.     Never  in  one  instance  was  it  permitted  him 
to  grapple  with  any  subject  with  the  full  collection  of  his  10 
strength,  to  fuse  and  mould  it  in  the  concentrated  fire  of 
his  genius.     To  try  by  the  strict  rules  of  Art  such  imper- 
fect fragments,  would  be  at  once  unprofitable  and  unfair. 
Nevertheless,  there  is  something  in  these  poems,  marred 
and  defective  as  they  are,  which   forbids  the  most  fas-  15 
tidious  student  of  poetry  to  pass  them  by.     Some  sort  of 
enduring  quality  they  must  have  :    for  after  fifty  years  of 
the  wildest  vicissitudes  in  poetic  taste,  they  still  continue 
to  be  read;   nay,  are  read  more  and  more  eagerly,  morej 
and  more  extensively;    and  this  not  only  by  literary  vir-  20 
tuosos,    and    that    class    upon    whom    transitory    causes 
operate  most  strongly,  but  by  all  classes,  down    to   the 
most  hard,  unlettered  and  truly  natural  class,  who  read 
little^andjesrjecially  no  poetry,  except  because  they  find 
pleasure  in  it.     The  grounds  of  so  singular  and  wide  a  25 
popularity,  which  extends,  in  a  literal    sense,    from   the      \ 
palace  to  the  hut,  and  over  all  regions  where  the  English 
tongue  is  spoken,  are  well  worth  inquiring  into.     After 
every  just  deduction,  it  seems  to  imply  some  rare  excel- 
lence in  these  works.    What  is  that  excellence  ?  30 

To  answer  this  question  will  not  lead  us  far.  The 
excellence  of  Burns  is,  indeed,  among  the  rarest, 
whether  in  poetry  or  prose;  but,  at  the  same  time,  it  is 
plain  and  easily  recognised :  his  Sincerity,  his  indisput- 


12  BURNS. 

able  air  of  Truth.  Here  are  no  fabulous  woes  or  joys  ; 
no  hollow  fantastic  sentimentalities ;  no  wiredrawn  refin- 
ings,  either  in  thought  or  feeling:  the  passion  that  is 
traced  before  us  has  glowed  in  a  living  heart;  the  opin- 
5  ion  he  utters  has  risen  in  his  own  understanding,  and 
been  a  light  to  his  own  steps.  He  does  not  write  from 
hearsay,  but  from  sight  and  experience;  it  is  the  scenes 
that  he  has  lived  and  laboured  amidst,  that  he  describes: 
those  scenes,  rude  and  humble  as  they  are,  have  kindled 

10  beautiful  emotions  in  his  soul,  noble  thoughts,  and  defi- 
nite resolves ;  and  he  speaks  forth  what  is  in  him,  not 
from  any  outward  call  of  vanity  or  interest,  but  because 
his  heart  is  too  full  to  be  silent.  He  speaks  it  with  such 
melody  and  modulation  as  he  can;  'in  homely  rustic 

it;  jingle; '  but  it  is  his  own,  and  genuine.   This  is  the  grand 

'    secret  for  finding  readers   and  retaining  them:  let  him 

\    who  would  move  and  convince  others,  be  first  moveoT  and 

\  convinced   himself.     Horace's   rule,    Si  vis  me  flere,   is 

applicable  in  a  wider  sense  than  the  literal  one.    To  every 

20  poet,  to  every  writer,  we  might  say:  Be  true,  if  you 
would  be  believed.  Let  a  man  but  speak  forth  with 
genuine  earnestness  the  thought,  the  emotion,  the  actual 
condition  of  his  own  heart;  and  other  men,  so  strangely 
are  we  all  knit  together  by  the  tie  of  sympathy,  must  and 

25  will  give  heed  to  him.  In  culture,  in  extent  of  view,  we 
may  stand  above  the  speaker,  or  below  him;  but  in 
either  case,  his  words,  if  they  are  earnest  and  sincere, 
will  find  some  response  within  us;  for  in  spite  of  all 
casual  varieties  in  outward  rank  or  inward,  as  face 

30  answers  to  face,  so  does  the  heart  of   man  to  man. 

This  may  appear  a  very  simple  principle,  and  one 
which  Burns  had  little  merit  in  discovering.  True,  the 
discovery  is  easy  enough:  but  the  practical  appliance  is 
not  easy ;  is  indeed  the  fundamental  difficulty  which  all 


BURNS.  13 

poets  have  to  strive  with,  and  which  scarcely  one  in  the 
hundred  ever  fairly  surmounts.  A  head  too  dull  to  dis- 
criminate the  true  from  the  false;  a  heart  too  dull  to  love 
the  one  at  all  risks,  and  to  hate  the  other  in  spite  of  all 
temptations,  are  alike  fatal  to  a  writer.  With  either,  or  as  5 
more  commonly  happens,  with  both  of  these  deficiencies 
combine  a  love  of  distinction,  a  wish  to  be  original,  which 
is  seldom  wanting,  and  we  have  Affectation,  the  bane  of 
literature,  as  Cant,  its  elder  brother,  is  of  morals.  How 
often  does  the  one  and  the  other  front  us,  in  poetry,  as  in  10 
life !  Great  poets  themselves  are  not  always  free  of  this 
vice;  nay,  it  is  precisely  on  a  certain  sort  and  degree  of 
greatness  that  it  is  most  commonly  ingrafted.  A  strong 
effort  after  excellence  will  sometimes  solace  itself  with  a 
mere  shadow  of  success;  he  who  has  much  to  unfold,  will  15 
sometimes  unfold  it  imperfectly.  Byron,  for  instance, 
was  no  common  man :  yet  if  we  examine  his  poetry  with 
this  view,  we  shall  find  it  far  enough  from  faultless. 
Generally  speaking,  we  should  say  that  it  is  not  true. 
He  refreshes  us,  not  with  the  divine  fountain,  but  too  20 
often  with  vulgar  strong  waters,  stimulating  indeed  to 
the  taste,  but  soon  ending  in  dislike,  or  even  nausea. 
Are  his  Harolds  and  Giaours,  we  would  ask,  real  men; 
we  mean,  poetically  consistent  and  conceivable  men  ?  Do 
not  these  characters,  does  not  the  character  of  their  25 
author,  which  more  or  less  shines  through  them  all,  rather 
appear  a  thing  put  on  for  the  occasion;  no  natural  or 
possible  mode  of  being,  but  something  intended  to  look 
much  grander  than  nature  ?  Surely,  all  these  stormful 
agonies,  this  volcanic  heroism,  superhuman  contempt  and  30 
moody  desperation,  with  so  much  scowling,  and  teeth- 
gnashing,  and  other  sulphurous  humour,  is  more  like  the 
brawling  of  a  player  in  some  paltry  tragedy,  which  is  to 
last  three  hours,  than  the  bearing  of  a  man  in  the  busi- 


14  BURNS. 

ness  of  life,  which  is  to  last  threescore  and  ten  years. 
To  our  minds  there  is  a  taint  of  this  sort,  something  which 
we  should  call  theatrical,  false,  affected,  in  every  one  of 
these  otherwise  so  powerful  pieces.  Perhaps  Don  Juan, 
5  especially  the  latter  parts  of  it,  is  the  only  thing  approach- 
ing to  a  sincere  work,  he  ever  wrote  ;  the  only  work  where 
he  showed  himself,  in  any  measure,  as  he  was;  and 
seemed  so  intent  on  his  subject  as,  for  moments,  to  for- 
get himself.  Yet  Byron  hated  this  vice;  we  believe, 

10  heartily  detested  it :  nay  he  had  declared  formal  war 
against  it  in  words.  So  difficult  is  it  even  for  the  strong- 
est to  make  this  primary  attainment,  which  might  seem 
the  simplest  of  all:  to  read  its  own  consciousness  without 
mistakes,  without  errors  involuntary  or  wilful !  We  recol- 

15  lectno  poet  of  Burns's  susceptibility  who  comes  before  us 
from  the  first,  and  abides  with  us  to  the  last,  with  such  a 
total  want  of  affectation.  He  is  an  honest  man,  and  an 
honest  writer.  In  his  successes  and  his  failures,  in  his 
greatness  and  his  littleness,  he  is  ever  clear,  simple,  true, 

20  and  glitters  with  no  lustre  but  his  own.  We  reckon  this 
to  be  a  great  virtue;  to  be,  in  fact,  the  root  of  most 
other  virtues,  literary  as  well  as  moral. 

Here,  however,  let  us  say,  it  is  to  the  Poetry  of  Burns 
that  we  now  allude;  to  those  writings  which  he  had  time 

25  to  meditate,  and  where  no  special  reason  existed  to  warp 
his  critical  feeling,  or  obstruct  his  endeavour  to  fulfil  it. 
Certain  of  his  Letters,  and  other  fractions  of  prose  com- 
position, by  no  means  deserve  this  praise.  Here,  doubt- 
less, there  is  not  the  same  natural  truth  of  style;  but,  on 

30  the  contrary,  something  not  only  stiff,  but  strained  and 
twisted;  a  certain  high-flown  inflated  tone;  the  stilting 
emphasis  of  which  contrasts  ill  with  the  firmness  and 
rugged  simplicity  of  even  his  poorest  verses.  Thus  no 
man,  it  would  appear,  is  altogether  unaffected.  Does  not 


BURNS.  15 

Shakspeare  himself  sometimes  premeditate  the  sheerest 
bombast !  But  even  with  regard  to  these  Letters  of  Burns, 
it  is  but  fair  to  state  that  he  had  two  excuses.  The  first 
was  his  comparative  deficiency  in  language.  Burns, 
though  for  most  part  he  writes  with  singular  force  and  5 
even  gracefulness,  is  not  master  of  English  prose,  as  he 
is  of  Scottish  verse;  not  master  of  it,  we  mean,  in  pro- 
portion to  the  depth  and  vehemence  of  his  matter.  These 
Letters  strike  us  as  the  effort  of  a  man  to  express  some- 
thing which  he  has  no  organ  fit  for  expressing.  But  a  sec-  10 
ond  and  weightier  excuse  is  to  be  found  in  the  peculiarity 
of  Burns's  social  rank.  His  correspondents  are  often 
men  whose  relation  to  him  he  has  never  accurately  ascer- 
tained ;  whom  therefore  he  is  either  forearming  himself 
against,  or  else  unconsciously  flattering,  by  adopting  the  15 
style  he  thinks  will  please  them.  At  all  events,  we  should 
remember  that  these  faults,  even  in  his  Letters,  are  not 
the  rule,  but  the  exception.  Whenever  he  writes,  as  one 
would  ever  wish  to  do,  to  trusted  friends  and  on  real 
interests,  his  style  becomes  simple,  vigorous,  expressive,  20 
sometimes  even  beautiful.  His  letters  to  Mrs.  Dunlop 
are  uniformly  excellent. 

But  we  return  to  his  Poetry.  In  addition  to  its  Sin- 
cerity, it  has  another  peculiar  merit,  which  indeed  is  but 
a  mode,  or  perhaps  a  means,  of  the  foregoing  :  this  25 
displays  itself  in  his  choice  of  subjects;  or  rather  in  his 
indifference  as  to  subjects,  and  the  power  he  has  of 
making  all  subjects  interesting.  The  ordinary  poet,  like 
the  ordinary  man,  is  forever  seeking  in  external  circum- 
stances the  help  which  can  be  found  only  in  himself.  In  30 
what  is  familiar  and  near  at  hand,  he  discerns  no  form  or 
comeliness:  home  is  not  poetical,  but  prosaic;  it  is  in 
some  past,  distant,  conventional  heroic  world  that  poetry 
resides.  Were  he  there  and  not  here,  were  he  thus  and 


16  BURNS. 

not  so,  it  would  be  well  with  him.  Hence  our  innumer- 
able host  of  rose-coloured  Novels  and  iron-mailed  Epics, 
with  their  locality  not  on  the  Earth,  but  somewhere 
nearer  to  the  Moon.  Hence  our  Virgins  of  the  Sun,  and 
5  our  Knights  of  the  Cross,  malicious  Saracens  in  turbans, 
and  copper-coloured  Chiefs  in  wampum,  and  so  many  other 
truculent  figures  from  the  heroic  times  or  the  heroic 
climates,  who  on  all  hands  swarm  in  our  poetry.  Peace 
be  with  them  !  But  yet,  as  a  great  moralist  proposed 

10  preaching  to  the  men  of  this  century,  so  would  we  fain 
preach  to  the  poets,  '  a  sermon  on  the  duty  of  staying  at 
home.'  Let  them  be  sure  that  heroic  ages  and  heroic 
climates  can  do  little  for  them.  That  form  of  life  has 
attraction  for  us,  less  because  it  is  better  or  nobler  than 

15  our  own,  than  simply  because  it  is  different;  and  even 
this  attraction  must  be  of  the  most  transient  sort.  For 
will  not  our  own  age,  one  day,  be  an  ancient  one ;  and 
have  as  quaint  a  costume  as  the  rest;  not  contrasted 
with  the  rest,  therefore,  but  ranked  along  with  them  in 

20  respect  of  quaintness?  Does  Homer  interest  us  now, 
because  he  wrote  of  what  passed  beyond  his  native 
Greece,  and  two  centuries  before  he  was  born;  or  because 
he  wrote  what  passed  in  God's  world,  and  in  the  heart  of 
man,  which  is  the  same  after  thirty  centuries  ?  Let  our 

25  poets  look  to  this :  is  their  feeling  really  finer,  truer,  and 
their  vision  deeper  than  that  of  other  men, —  they  have 
nothing  to  fear,  even  from  the  humblest  subject;  is  it 
not  so, —  they  have  nothing  to  hope,  but  an  ephemeral 
favour,  even  from  the  highest. 

30  The  poet,  we  imagine,  can  never  have  far  to  seek  for  a 
subject :  the  elements  of  his  art  are  in  him,  and  around 
him  on  every  hand;  for  him  the  Ideal  world  is  not  remote 
from  the  Actual,  but  under  it  and  within  it  :  nay,  he  is  a 
poet,  precisely  because  he  can  .  discern  it  there.  Wher- 


BURNS.  17 

ever  there  is  a  sky  above  him,  and  a  world  around  him, 
the  poet  is  in  his  place;  for  here  too  is  man's  existence, 
with  its  infinite  longings  and  small  acquirings;  its  ever- 
thwarted,  ever-renewed  endeavours ;  its  unspeakable 
aspirations,  its  fears  and  hopes  that  wander  through  5 
Eternity  ;  and  all  the  mystery  of  brightness  and  of  gloom 
that  it  was  ever  made  of,  in  any  age  or  climate,  since 
man  first  began  to  live.  Is  there  not  the  fifth  act  of  a 
Tragedy  in  every  death-bed,  though  it  were  a  peasant's, 
and  a  bed  of  heath  ?  And  are  wooings  and  weddings  10 
obsolete,  that  there  can  be  Comedy  no  longer  !  Or  are 
men  suddenly  grown  wise,  that  Laughter  must  no  longer 
shake  his  sides,  but  be  cheated  of  his  Farce  ?  Man's  life 
and  nature  is,  as  it  was,  and  as  it  will  ever  be.  But  the 
poet  must  have  an  eye  to  read  these  things,  and  a  heart  15 
to  understand  them;  or  they  come  and  pass  away  before 
him  in  vain.  He  is  a  vates,  a  seer;  a  gift  of  vision  has 
been  given  him.  Has  life  no  meanings  for  him,  which 
another  cannot  equally  decipher  ;  then  he  is  no  poet, 
and  Delphi  itself  will  not  make  him  one.  20 

In  this  respect,  Burns,  though  not  perhaps  absolutely 
a  great  poet,  better  manifests  his  capability,  better  proves 
the  truth  of  his  genius,  than  if  he  had  by  his  own  strength 
kept  the  whole  Minerva  Press  going  to  the  end  of  his 
literary  course.  He  shows  himself  at  least  a  poet  of  25 
Nature's  own  making;  and  Nature,  after  all,  is  still  the 
grand  agent  in  making  poets.  We  often  hear  of  this  and 
the  other  external  condition  being  requisite  for  the  exist- 
ence of  a  poet.  Sometimes  it  is  a  certain  sort  of  training  ; 
he  must  have  studied  certain  things,  studied  for  instance  30 
'  the  elder  dramatists/  and  so  learned  a  poetic  language  ; 
as  if  poetry  lay  in  the  tongue,  not  in  the  heart.  At  other 
times  we  are  told  he  must  be  bred  in  a  certain  rank,  and 
must  be  on  a  confidential  footing  with  the  higher  classes  ; 


18  BURNS. 

because,  above  all  things,  he  must  see  the  world.  As  to 
seeing  the  world,  we  apprehend  this  will  cause  him  little 
difficulty,  if  he  have  but  eyesight  to  see  it  with.  Without 
eyesight,  indeed,  the  task  might  be  hard.  The  blind  or 
5  the  purblind  man  *  travels  from  Dan  to  Beersheba,  and 
finds  it  all  barren.'  But  happily  every  poet  is  born  in  the 
world  ;  and  sees  it,  with  or  against  his  will,  every  day  and 
every  hour  he  lives.  The  mysterious  workmanship  of 
man's  heart,  the  true  light  and  the  inscrutable  darkness 

10  of  man's  destiny,  reveal  themselves  not  only  in  capital 
cities  and  crowded  saloons,  but  in  every  hut  and  hamlet 
where  men  have  their  abode.  Nay,  do  not  the  elements 
of  all  human  virtues  and  all  human  vices;  the  passions 
at  once  of  a  Borgia  and  of  a  Luther,  lie  written,  in 

15  stronger  or  fainter  lines,  in  the  consciousness  of  every 
individual  bosom,  that  has  practised  honest  self-examina- 
tion ?  Truly,  this  same  world  may  be  seen  in  Mossgiel 
and  Tarbolton,  if  we  look  well,  as  clearly  as.  it  ever  came 
to  light  in  Crockford's  or  the  Tuileries  itself. 

20  But  sometimes  still  harder  requisitions  are  laid  on  the 
poor  aspirant  to  poetry;  for  it  is  hinted  that  he  should 
have  been  born  two  centuries  ago;  inasmuch  as  poetry, 
about  that  date,  vanished  from  the  earth,  and  became  no 
longer  attainable  by  men !  Such  cobweb  speculations 

25  have,  now  and  then,  overhung  the  field  of  literature;  but 
they  obstruct  not  the  growth  of  any  plant  there:  the 
Shakspeare  or  the  Burns,  unconsciously  and  merely  as  he 
walks  onward,  silently  brushes  them  away.  Is  not  every 
genius  an  impossibility  till  he  appear  ?  Why  do  we  call 

30  him  new  and  original,  if  we  saw  where  his  marble  was 
lying,  and  what  fabric  he  could  rear  from  it  ?  It  is  not 
the  material  but  the  workman  that  is  wanting.  It  is  not 
the  dark  place  that  hinders,  but  the  dim  eye.  A  Scottish 
peasant's  life  was  the  meanest  and  rudest  of  all  lives,  till 


BURNS.  19 

Burns  became  a  poet  in  it,  and  a  poet  of  it;  found  it  a 
man's  life,  and  therefore  significant  to  men.  A  thousand 
battle-fields  remain  unsung;  but  the  Wounded  Hare  has  not 
perished  without  its  memorial ;  a  balm  of  mercy  yet  breathes 
on  us  from  its  dumb  agonies,  because  a  poet  was  there.  5 
Our  Halloween  had  passed  and  repassed,  in  rude  awe  and 
laughter,  since  the  era  of  the  Druids;  but  no  Theocritus, 
till  Burns,  discerned  in  it  the  materials  of  a  Scottish  Idyl: 
neither  was  the  Holy  Fair  any  Council  of  Trent  or  Roman 
Jubilee ;  but  nevertheless,  Superstition  and  Hypocrisy  and  10 
Fun  having  been  propitious  to  him,  in  this  man's  hand  it 
became  a  poem,  instinct  with  satire  and  genuine  comic  life. 
Let  but  the  true  poet  be  given  us,  we  repeat  it,  place  him 
where  and  how  you  will,  and  true  poetry  will  not  be  wanting. 

Independently  of  the  essential  gift  of  poetic  feeling,  as  15 
we  have  now  attempted  to  describe  it,  a  certain  rugged 
sterling  worth  pervades  whatever  Burns  has  written ;  a 
virtue,  as  of  green  fields  and  mountain  breezes,  dwells  in 
his  poetry ;  it  is  redolent  of  natural  life  and  hardy  natural 
men.  There  is  a  decisive  strength  in  him,  and  yet  a 
sweet  native  gracefulness :  he  is  tender,  he  is  vehement, 
yet  without  constraint  or  too  visible  effort ;  he  melts  the 
heart,  or  inflames  it,  with  a  power  which  seems  habitual 
and  familiar  to  him.  We  see  that  in  this  man  there  was 
the  gentleness,  the  trembling  pity  of  a  woman,  with  the  25 
deep  earnestness,  the  force  and  passionate  ardour  of  a 
hero.  Tears  lie  in  him,  and  consuming  fire;  as  light- 
ning lurks  in  the  drops  of  the  summer  cloud.  He  has  a 
resonance  in  his  bosom  for  every  note  of  human  feeling ; 
the  high  and  the  low,  the  sad,  the  ludicrous,  the  joyful,  30 
are  welcome  in  their  turns  to  his  '  lightly-moved  and  all- 
conceiving  spirit.'  And  observe  with  what  a  fierce 
prompt  force  he  grasps  his  subject,  be  it  what  it  may ! 
How  he  fixes,  as  it  were,  the  full  image  of  the  matter  in 


20  BURNS. 

his  eye;  full  and  clear  in  every  lineament;  and  catches  the 
real  type  and  essence  of  it,  amid  a  thousand  accidents  and 
superficial  circumstances,  no  one  of  which  misleads  him  1 
Is  it  of  reason;  some  truth  to  be  discovered?  No  sophistry, 
5  no  vain  surface-logic  detains  him;  quick,  resolute,  unerring, 
he  pierces  through  into  the  marrow  of  the  question  ;  and 
speaks  his  verdict  with  an  emphasis  that  cannot  be  forgotten. 
Is  it  of  description  ;  some  visual  object  to  be  represented? 
No  poet  of  any  age  or  nation  is  more  graphic  than  Burns : 

10  the  characteristic  features  disclose  themselves  to  him  at  a 
glance  ;  three  lines  from  his  hand,  and  we  have  a  likeness. 
And,  in  that  rough  dialect,  in  that  rude,  often  awkward 
metre,  so  clear  and  definite  a  likeness !  It  seems  a 
draughtsman  working  with  a  burnt  stick;  and  yet  the 

15  burin  of  a  Retzsch  is  not  more  expressive  or  exact. 

Of  this  last  excellence,  the  plainest  and  most  compre- 
hensive of  all,  being  indeed  the  root  and  foundation  of 
every  sort  of  talent,  poetical  or  intellectual,  we  could  pro- 
duce innumerable  instances  from  the  writings  of  Burns. 

20  Take  these  glimpses  of  a  snow-storm  from  his  Winter 
Night  (the  italics  are  ours)  : 

When  biting  Boreas,  fell  and  doure,1 
Sharp  shivers  thro'  the  leafless  bow'r, 
And  Phoebus  gies  a  short-liv'd  glowr 
25  Far  south  the  lift? 

Dim-darkening  thrc?  the  flaky  shoitfr 
Or  whirling  drift : 

'Ae  night  the  storm  the  steeples  rock'd, 
Poor  labour  sweet  in  sleep  was  lock'd, 
30  While  burns  iv?  snaivy   ivreeths  upchotfd 

Wild-eddying  sivhirl, 
Or  thro'  the  mining  outlet  bock'd  3 
Down  headlong  hurl. 

1  Keen  and  stubborn.  2  Sky.  8  Gushed. 


BURNS.  21 

Are  there  not  *  descriptive  touches '  here  ?  The  de- 
scriber  saw  this  thing  ;  the  essential  feature  and  true 
likeness  of  every  circumstance  in  it;  saw,  and  not  with 
the  eye  only.  '  Poor  labour  locked  in  sweet  sleep  ; '  the 
dead  stillness  of  man,  unconscious,  vanquished,  yet  not  5 
unprotected,  while  such  strife  of  the  material  elements 
rages,  and  seems  to  reign  supreme,  in  loneliness  :  this  is 
of  the  heart  as  well  as  of  the  eye  !  —  Look  also  at  his 
image  of  a  thaw,  and  prophesied  fall  of  the  Auld  Brig: 

When  heavy,  dark,  continued,  a'-day  rains  10 

Wi'  deepening  deluges  o'erflow  the  plains  ; 

When  from  the  hills  where  springs  the  brawling  Coil, 

Or  stately  Lugar's  mossy  fountains  boil, 

Or  where  the  Greenock  winds  his  moorland  course, 

Or  haunted  Garpal1  draws  his  feeble  source,  13 

Arous'd  by  blust'ring  winds  and  spotting  thowes,2 

In  mony  a  torrent  down  his  snaw-broo  rowes  ;  8 

While  crashing  ice,  borne  on  the  roaring  speatf 

Sweeps  dams  and  mills  and  brigs  5  a1  to  the  gate; 

And  from  Glenbuck  down  to  the  Rottenkey,  20 

Auld  Ayr  is  just  one  lengthen'd  tumbling  sea  ; 

Then  down  ye'll  hurl,  Deil  nor  ye  never  rise  ! 

And  dash  the  gumlie  jaups*  up  to  the  pouring  skies. 

The  last  line  is  in  itself  a  Poussin-picture  of  that  Deluge  ! 
The  welkin  has,  as  it  were,  bent  down  with  its  weight;  25 
the  'gumlie  jaups '  and  the  'pouring  skies'  are  mingled 
together  ;   it  is  a  world  of  rain  and  ruin.     In  respect  of 
mere  clearness   and  minute   fidelity,  the  Farmer's  com- 
mendation of  his  Auld  Mare,  in  plough  or  in  cart,  may 
vie  with    Homer's    Smithy   of   the    Cyclops,    or   yoking  30 
of  Priam's  Chariot.     Nor  have  we  forgotten  stout  Burn- 

1  Fabulosus  Hydaspes  !  C.       2  Thaws.       3  Melted  snow  rolls. 

4  A  flood  after  heavy  rain,  or  thaw. 

6  Bridges.        6  Splashes  of  muddy  water. 


22  BURNS. 

the-wind1  and  his  brawny  customers,  inspired  by  Scotch 
Drink:  but  it  is  needless  to  multiply  examples.  One 
other  trait  of  a  much  finer  sort  we  select  from  multitudes 
of  such  among  his  Songs.  It  gives,  in  a  single  line,  to 
5  the  saddest  feeling  the  saddest  environment  and  local 
habitation : 

The  pale  Moon  is  setting  beyond  the  white  wave, 
And  Time  is  setting  wi1  me,  O / 
Farewell,  false  friends  !  false  lover,  farewell ! 
10  I  '11  nae  mair  trouble  them  nor  thee,  O. 

This  clearness  of  sight  we  have  called  the  foundation 
of  all  talent ;  for  in  fact,  unless  we  see  our  object,  how 
shall  we  know  how  to  place  or  prize  it,  in  our  under- 
standing, our  imagination,  our  affections?  Yet  it  is  not 

15  in  itself,  perhaps,  a  very  high  excellence  ;  but  capable  of 
being  united  indifferently  with  the  strongest,  or  with 
ordinary  power.  Homer  surpasses  all  men  in  this 
quality  :  but  strangely  enough,  at  no  great  distance 
below  him  are  Richardson  and  Defoe.  It  belongs,  in 

20  truth,  to  what  is  called  a  lively  mind;  and  gives  no  sure 
indication  of  the  higher  endowments  that  may  exist  along 
with  it.  In  all  the  three  cases  we  have  mentioned,  it  is 
combined  with  great  garrulity ;  their  descriptions  are 
detailed,  ample  and  lovingly  exact ;  Homer's  fire  bursts 

25  through,  from  time  to  time,  as  if  by  accident ;  but  Defoe 
and  Richardson  have  no  fire.  Burns,  again,  is  not  more 
distinguished  by  the  clearness  than  by  the  impetuous 
force  of  his  conceptions.  Of  the  strength,  the  piercing 
emphasis  with  which  he  thought,  his  emphasis  of  expres- 

30  sion  may  give  a  humble  but  the  readiest  proof.  Who 
ever  uttered  sharper  sayings  than  his ;  words  more  mem- 

1  A  blacksmith. 


BURNS.  23 

orable,  now  by  their  burning  vehemence,  now  by  their 
cool  vigour  and  laconic  pith  ?  A  single  phrase  depicts 
a  whole  subject,  a  whole  scene.  We  hear  of  'a  gentle- 
man that  derived  his  patent  of  nobility  direct  from 
Almighty  God.'  Our  Scottish  forefathers  in  the  battle-  5 
field  struggled  forward  *"  red-wat-shod':  in  this  one  word, 
a  full  vision  of  horror  and  carnage,  perhaps  too  fright- 
fully accurate  for  Art ! 

In  fact,  one  of  the  leading  features  in  the  mind  of 
Burns  is  this  vigour  of  his  strictly  intellectual  percep-  10 
tions.  A  resolute  force  is  ever  visible  in  his  judgments, 
and  in  his  feelings  and  volitions.  Professor  Stewart 
says  of  him,  with  some  surprise :  '  All  the  faculties  of 
Burns's  mind  were,  as  far  as  I  could  judge,  equally 
vigorous;  and  his  predilection  for  poetry  was  rather  the  15 
result  of  his  own  enthusiastic  and  impassioned  temper, 
than  of  a  genius  exclusively  adapted  to  that  species  of 
composition.  From  his  conversation  I  should  have  pro- 
nounced him  to  be  fitted  to  excel  in  whatever  walk  of 
ambition  he  had  chosen  to  exert  his  abilities/  But  this,  20 
if  we  mistake  not,  is  at  all  times  the  very  essence  of  a 
truly  poetical  endowment.  Poetry,  except  in  such  cases 
as  that  of  Keats,  where  the  whole  consists  in  a  weak- 
eyed  maudlin  sensibility,  and  a  certain  vague  random 
tunefulness  of  nature,  is  no  separate  faculty,  no  organ  25 
which  can  be  superadded  to  the  rest,  or  disjoined  from 
them ;  but  rather  the  result  of  their  general  harmony  and 
completion.  The  feelings,  the  gifts  that  exist  in  the  Poet 
are  those  that  exist,  with  more  or  less  development,  in 
every  human  soul  :  the  imagination,  which  shudders  at  30 
the  Hell  of  Dante,  is  the  same  faculty,  weaker  in 
degree,  which  called  that  picture  into  being.  How  does 
the  Poet  speak  to  men,  with  power,  but  by  being  still 
more  a  man  than  they  ?  Shakspeare,  it  has  been  well 


24  BURNS. 

observed,  in  the  planning  and  completing  of  his  trage- 
dies, has  shown  an  Understanding,  were  it  nothing  more, 
which  might  have  governed  states,  or  indited  a  Novum 
Organum.  What  Burns's  force  of  understanding  may 
5  have  been,  we  have  less  means  of  judging  :  it  had  to 
dwell  among  the  humblest  objects ;  never  saw  Philoso- 
phy ;  never  rose,  except  by  natural  effort  and  for  short 
intervals,  into  the  region  of  great  ideas.  Nevertheless, 
sufficient  indication,  if  no  proof  sufficient,  remains  for 

10  us  in  his  works  :  we  discern  the  brawny  movements  of  a 
gigantic  though  untutored  strength ;  and  can  understand 
how,  in  conversation,  his  quick  sure  insight  into  men  and 
things  may,  as  much  as  aught  else  about  him,  have 
amazed  the  best  thinkers  of  his  time  and  country. 

15  But,  unless  we  mistake,  the  intellectual  gift  of  Burns 
is  fine  as  well  as  strong.  The  more  delicate  relations  of 
things  could  not  well  have  escaped  his  eye,  for  they  were 
intimately  present  to  his  heart.  The  logic  of  the  senate 
and  the  forum  is  indispensable,  but  not  all-sufficient ; 

20  nay  perhaps  the  highest  Truth  is  that  which  will  the 
most  certainly  elude  it.  For  this  logic  works  by  words, 
and  *  the  highest,'  it  has  been  said,  *  cannot  be  expressed 
in  words.'  We  are  not  without  tokens  of  an  openness  for 
this  higher  truth  also,  of  a  keen  though  uncultivated 

25  sense  for  it,  having  existed  in  Burns.  Mr.  Stewart,  it 
will  be  remembered,  '  wonders,'  in  the  passage  above 
quoted,  that  Burns  had  formed  some  distinct  conception 
of  the  '  doctrine  of  association.'  We  rather  think  that  far 
subtler  things  than  the  doctrine  of  association  had  from 

30  of  old  been  familiar  to  him.     Here,  for  instance : 

<•  We  know  nothing,'  thus  writes  he,  'or  next  to  nothing,  of 
the  structure  of  our  souls,  so  we  cannot  account  for  those  seem- 
ing caprices  in  them,  that  one  should  be  particularly  pleased 
with  this  thing,  or  struck  with  that,  which,  on  minds  of  a 


BURNS.  25 

different  cast,  makes  no  extraordinary  impression.  I  have 
some  favourite  flowers  in  spring,  among  which  are  the  moun- 
tain-daisy, the  harebell,  the  foxglove,  the  wild  brier  rose,  the 
budding  birch,  and  the  hoary  hawthorn,  that  I  view  and  hang 
over  with  particular  delight.  I  never  hear  the  loud  solitary  5 
whistle  of  the  curlew  in  a  summer  noon,  or  the  wild  mixing 
cadence  of  a  troop  of  gray  plover  in  an  autumnal  morning, 
without  feeling  an  elevation  of  soul  like  the  enthusiasm  of 
devotion  or  poetry.  Tell  me,  my  dear  friend,  to  what  can  this 
be  owing?  Are  we  a  piece  of  machinery,  which,  like  the  10 
^Eolian  harp,  passive,  takes  the  impression  of  the  passing  acci- 
dent; or  do  these  workings  argue  something  within  us  above 
the  trodden  clod?  I  own  myself  partial  to  such  proofs  of 
those  awful  and  important  realities:  a  God  that  made  all 
things,  man's  immaterial  and  immortal  nature,  and  a  world  of  15 
weal  or  wo  beyond  death  and  the  grave.' 

Force  and  fineness  of  understanding  are  often  spoken 
of  as  something  different  from  general  force  and  fineness 
of  nature,  as  something  partly  independent  of  them.  The 
necessities  of  language  so  require  it  ;  but  in  truth  these  20 
qualities  are  not  distinct  and  independent ;  except  in 
special  cases,  and  from  special  causes,  they  ever  go  to- 
gether. A  man  of  strong  understanding  is  generally  a 
man  of  strong  character;  neither  is  delicacy  in  the  one 
kind  often  divided  from  delicacy  in  the  other.  No  one,  25 
at  all  events,  is  ignorant  that  in  the  Poetry  of  Burns 
keenness  of  insight  keeps  pace  with  keenness  of  feeling; 
that  his  light  is  not  more  pervading  than  his  warmth. 
He  is  a  man  of  the  most  impassioned  temper  ;  with 
passions  not  strong  only,  but  noble,  and  of  the  sort  in  30 
which  great  virtues  and  great  poems  take  their  rise.  It 
is  reverence,  it  is  love  towards  all  Nature  that  inspires 
him,  that  opens  his  eyes  to  its  beauty,  and  makes  heart 
and  voice  eloquent  in  its  praise.  There  is  a  true  old 


26  BURNS. 

saying,  that  '  Love  furthers  knowledge : '  but,  above  all,  it 
is  the  living  essence  of  that  knowledge  which  makes 
poets  ;  the  first  principle  of  its  existence,  increase,  ac- 
tivity. Of  Burns' s  fervid  affection,  his  generous  all-em- 
5  bracing  Love,  we  have  spoken  already,  as  of  the  grand 
distinction  of  his  nature,  seen  equally  in  word  and  deed, 
in  his  Life  and  in  his  Writings.  It  were  easy  to  multiply 
examples.  Not  man  only,  but  all  that  environs  man  in 
the  'material  and  moral  universe,  is  lovely  in  his  sight  : 

10  '  the  hoary  hawthorn,'  the  *  troop  of  gray  plover,'  the 
'  solitary  curlew,'  all  are  dear  to  him;  all  live  in  this 
Earth  along  with  him,  and  to  all  he  is  knit  as  in  mysteri- 
ous brotherhood.  How  touching  is  it,  for  instance,  that, 
amidst  the  gloom  of  personal  misery,  brooding  over  the 

15  wintry  desolation  without  him  and  within  him,  he  thinks 
of  the  '  ourie  1  cattle  '  and  '  silly  sheep,'  and  their  suffer- 
ings in  the  pitiless  storm  ! 

I  thought  me  on  the  ourie  cattle, 
Or  silly  sheep,  wha  bide  this  brattle 
20  O'  wintry  war, 

Or  thro'  the  drift,  deep-lairing,  2  sprattle, 3 

Beneath  a  scaur.  4 

Ilk8  happing  bird,,  wee  helpless  thing, 
That  in  the  merry  months  o'  spring 
25  Delighted  me  to  hear  thee  sing, 

What  comes  o'  thee  ? 

Where  wilt  thou  cow'r  thy  chittering  6  wing, 
And  close  thy  ee  ? 

The  tenant  of  the  mean  hut,  with  its  '  ragged  roof  and 
30  chinky  wall,'  has  a  heart  to  pity  even  these !     This  is 

i  Shivering.  4  Cliff, 

a  Wading.  6  Each. 

8  Struggle.  Trembling  with  cold. 


BURNS.  27 

worth  several  homilies  on  Mercy;  for  it  is  the  voice  of 
Mercy  herself.  Burns,  indeed,  lives  in  sympathy;  his 
soul  rushes  forth  into  all  realms  of  being;  nothing  that 
has  existence  can  be  indifferent  to  him.  The  very  Devil 
he  cannot  hate  with  right  orthodoxy:  5 

But  fare  you  weel,  auld  Nickie-ben; 
O,  wad  ye  tak  a  thought  and  men'  ! 
Ye  aiblins l  might, —  I  dinna  ken, — 

Still  hae  a  stake  ; 
I'm  wae  to  think  upo'  yon  den,  10 

Even  for  your  sake  ! 

"He  is  the  father  of  curses  and  lies,"  said  Dr.  Slop ; 
"  and  is  cursed  and  damned  already."  "  I  am  sorry  for 
it,"  quoth  my  uncle  Toby  !  —  a  Poet  without  Love  were 
a  physical  and  metaphysical  impossibility.  15 

But  has  it  not  been  said,  in  contradiction  to  this  prin- 
ciple, that  'Indignation  makes  verses'?  It  has  been  so 
said,  and  is  true  enough  :  but  the  contradiction  is 
apparent,  not  real.  The  Indignation  which  makes 
verses  is,  properly  speaking,  an  inverted  Love  ;  the  love  20 
of  some  right,  some  worth,  some  goodness,  belonging  to 
ourselves  or  others,  which  has  been  injured,  and  which 
this  tempestuous  feeling  issues  forth  to  defend  and 
avenge.  No  selfish  fury  of  heart,  existing  there  as  a 
primary  feeling,  and  without  its  opposite,  ever  produced  25 
much  Poetry  :  otherwise,  we  suppose,  the  Tiger  were  the 
most  musical  of  all  our  choristers.  Johnson  said,  he 
loved  a  good  hater  ;  by  which  he  must  have  meant,  not 
so  much  one  that  hated  violently,  as  one  that  hated 
wisely  ;  hated  baseness  from  love  of  nobleness.  How-  30 
ever,  in  spite  of  Johnson's  paradox,  tolerable  enough  for 
once  in  speech,  but  which  need  not  have  been  so  often 

1  Perhaps. 


28  BURNS. 

adopted  in  print  since  then,  we  rather  believe  that  good 
men  deal  sparingly  in  hatred,  either  wise  or  unwise  :  nay 
that  a  « good  hater '  is  still  a  desideratum  in  this  world. 
The  Devil,  at  least,  who  passes  for  the  chief  and  best  of 
5  that  class,  is  said  to  be  nowise  an  amiable  character. 

Of  the  verses  which  Indignation  makes,  Burns  has  also 
given  us  specimens :  and  among  the  best  that  were  ever 
given.  Who  will  forget  his  *  Dweller  in  yon  Dungeon 
dark;'  a  piece  that  might  have  been  chanted  by  the 
10  Furies  of  ^Eschylus  ?  The  secrets  of  the  infernal  Pit  are 
laid  bare  ;  a  boundless  baleful  *  darkness  visible  ;  '  and 
streaks  of  hell-fire  quivering  madly  in  its  black  haggard 
bosom  1 

Dweller  in  yon  Dungeon  dark, 
J5  Hangman  of  Creation,  mark  ! 

Who  in  widow's  weeds  appears, 
Laden  with  unhonoured  years, 
Noosing  with  care  a  bursting  purse, 
Baited  with  many  a  deadly  curse  ! 

20  Why  should  we  speak  of  Scots  wha  hae  wV  Wallace  bled ; 
since  all  know  of  it,  from  the  king  to  the  meanest  of  his 
subjects  ?  This  xiiflvyramlric^was  composed  on  horse- 
back ;  in  riding  in~ThlT~miojdle  of  tempests,  over  the 
wildest  Galloway  moor,  in  company  with  a  Mr.  Syme, 

25  who,  observing  the  poet's  looks,  forbore  to  speak, — 
judiciously  enough,  for  a  man  composing  BrucJs  Address 
might  be  unsafe  to  trifle  with.  Doubtless  this  stern 
hymn  was  singing  itself,  as  he  formed  it,  through  the 
soul  of  Burns :  but  to  the  external  ear,  it  should  be  sung 

30  with  the  throat  of  the  whirlwind.  So  long  as  there  is 
warm  blood  in  the  heart  of  Scotchman  or  man,  it  will 
move  in  fierce  thrills  under  this  war-ode  ;  the  best,  we 
believe,  that  was  ever  written  by  any  pen. 


BURNS.  29 

Another  wild  stormful  Song,  that  dwells  in  our  ear  and 
mind  with  a  strange  tenacity,  is  Macphersori 's  Farewell. 
Perhaps  there  is  something  in  the  tradition  itself  that  co- 
operates. For  was  not  this  grim  Celt,  this  shaggy  North- 
land Cacus,  that  « lived  a  life  of  sturt  and  strife,  and  died  5 
by  treacherie,'  —  was  not  he  too  one  of  the  Nimrods  and 
Napoleons  of  the  earth,  in  the  arena  of  his  own  remote 
misty  glens,  for  want  of  a  clearer  and  wider  one  ?  Nay, 
was  there  not  a  touch  of  grace  given  him  ?  A  fibre  of 
love  and  softness,  of  poetry  itself,  must  have  lived  in  his  10 
savage  heart :  for  he  composed  that  air  the  night  before 
his  execution  ;  on  the  wings  of  that  poor  melody  his  bet- 
ter soul  would  soar  away  above  oblivion,  pain  and  all  the 
ignominy  and  despair,  which,  like  an  avalanche,  was  hurl- 
ing him  to  the  abyss  !  Here  also,  as  at  Thebes,  and  in  15; 
Pelops'  line,  was  material  Fate  matched  against  man's 
Free-will ;  matched  in  bitterest  though  obscure  duel ; 
and  the  ethereal  soul  sank  not,  even  in  its  blindness,  with- 
out a  cry  which  has  survived  it.  But  who,  except  Burns, 
could  have  given  words  to  such  a  soul ;  words  that  we  20 
never  listen  to  without  a  strange  half-barbarous,  half- 
poetic  fellow-feeling  ? 

Sae  rantingly, x  sae  wantonly, 

Sae  dann tingly  ga ed  h e  ; 
He  played  a  spring,  and  danced  it  round,  25 

Below  the  gallows-tree. 

Under  a  lighter  disguise,  the  same  principle  of  Love, 
which  we  have  recognised  as  the  great  characteristic  of 
Burns,  and  of  all  true  poets,  occasionally  manifests  itself 
in  the  shape  of  Humour.  Everywhere,  indeed,  in  his  30 
sunny  moods,  a  full  buoyant  flood  of  mirth  rolls  through 
the  mind  of  Burns  ;  he  rises  to  the  high,  and  stoops  to 
l  Gleefully. 


30  BURNS. 

the  low,  and  is  brother  and  playmate  to  all  Nature.  We 
speak  not  of  his  bold  and  often  irresistible  faculty  of  car- 
icature ;  for  this  is  Drollery  rather  than  Humour  :  but  a 
much  tenderer  sportfulness  dwells  in  him ;  and  comes 
5  forth  here  and  there,  in  evanescent  and  beautiful  touches  ; 
as  in  his  Address  to  the  Mouse,  or  the  Farmer's  Mare,  or 
in  his  Elegy  on  poor  Mailie,  which  last  may  be  reckoned 
his  happiest  effort  of  this  kind.  In  these  pieces  there 
are  traits  of  a  Humour  as  fine  as  that  of  Sterne  ;  yet 

10  altogether  different,  original,  peculiar,  —  the  Humour  of 
Burns. 

Of  the  tenderness,  the  playful  pathos,  and  many  other 
kindred  qualities  of  Burns's  Poetry,  much  more  might  be 
said  ;  but  now,  with  these  poor  outlines  of  a  sketch,  we 

15  must  prepare  to  quit  this  part  of  our  subject.  To  speak 
of  his  individual  Writings,  adequately  and  with  any  de- 
tail, would  lead  us  far  beyond  our  limits.  As  already 
hinted,  we  can  look  on  but  few  of  these  pieces  as,  in 
strict  critical  language,  deserving  the  name  of  Poems  : 

20  they  are  rhymed  eloquence,  rhymed  pathos,  rhymed  sense  ; 
yet  seldom  essentially  melodious,  aerial,  poetical.  Tarn 
o'Shanter  itself,  which  enjoys  so  high  a  favour,  does  not 
appear  to  us  at  all  decisively  to  come  under  this  last  cat- 
egory. It  is  not  so  much  a  poem,  as  a  piece  of  spark- 

25  ling  rhetoric ;  the  heart  and  body  of  the  story  still  lies 
hard  and  dead.  He  has  not  gone  back,  much  less  car- 
ried us  back,  into  that  dark,  earnest,  wondering  age,  when 
the  tradition  was  believed,  and  when  it  took  its  rise  ;  he 
does  not  attempt,  by  any  new-modeling  of  his  supernat- 

30  ural  ware,  to  strike  anew  that  deep  mysterious  chord  of 
human  nature,  which  once  responded  to  such  things  ; 
and  which  lives  in  us  too,  and  will  forever  live,  though 
silent  now,  or  vibrating  with  far  other  notes,  and  to  far 
different  issues.  Our  German  readers  will  understand  us, 


BURNS.  31 

when  we  say,  that  he  is  not  the  Tieck  but  the  Musaus  of 
this  tale.  Externally  it  is  all  green  and  living  ;  yet  look 
closer,  it  is  no  firm  growth,  but  only  ivy  on  a  rock.  The 
piece  does  not  properly  cohere  :  the  strange  chasm  which 
yawns  in  our  incredulous  imaginations  between  the  Ayr  5 
public-house  and  the  gate  of  Tophet,  is  nowhere  bridged 
over,  nay  the  idea  of  such  a  bridge  is  laughed  at ;  and 
thus  the  Tragedy  of  the  adventure  becomes  a  mere 
drunken  phantasmagoria,  or  many-coloured  spectrum 
painted  on  ale-vapours,  and  the  Farce  alone  has  any  10 
reality.  We  do  not  say  that  Burns  should  have  made 
much  more  of  this  tradition  ;  we  rather  think  that,  for 
strictly  poetical  purposes,  not  much  was  to  be  made  of  it. 
Neither  are  we  blind  to  the  deep,  varied,  genial  power 
displayed  in  what  he  has  actually  accomplished  ;  but  we  15 
find  far  more  '  Shakspearean '  qualities,  as  these  of  Tarn 
d1  Shanter  have  been  fondly  named,  in  many  of  his  other 
pieces ;  nay  we  incline  to  believe  that  this  latter  might 
have  been  written,  all  but  quite  as  well,  by  a  man  who, 
in  place  of  genius,  had  only  possessed  talent.  20 

Perhaps  we  may  venture  to  say,  that  the  most  strictly 
poetical  of  all  his  '  poems  '  is  one  which  does  not  appear 
in  Currie's  Edition  ;  but  has  been  often  printed  before 
and  since,  under  the  humble  title  of  The  Jolly  Beggars. 
The  subject  truly  is  among  the  lowest  in  Nature ;  but  it  25 
only  the  more  shows  our  Poet's  gift  in  raising  it  into  the 
domain  of  Art.  To  our  minds,  this  piece  seems  thor- 
oughly compacted  ;  melted  together,  refined ;  and  poured 
forth  in  one  flood  of  true  liquid  harmony.  It  is  light, 
airy,  soft  of  movement ;  yet  sharp  and  precise  in  its  3° 
details  ;  every  face  is  a  portrait  :  that  raucle  carlin,  that 
wee  Apollo,  that  Son  of  Mars,  are  Scottish,  yet  ideal ;  the 
scene  is  at  once  a  dream,  and  the  very  Ragcastle  of 
'Poosie-Nansie.'  Farther,  it  seems  in  a  considerable 


32  BURNS. 

degree  complete,  a  real  self-supporting  Whole,  which  is 
the  highest  merit  in  a  poem.  The  blanket  of  the  Night 
is  drawn  asunder  for  a  moment ;  in  full,  ruddy,  flaming 
light,  these  rough  tatterdemalions  are  seen  in  their  bois- 
S  terous  revel ;  for  the  strong  pulse  of  Life  vindicates  its 
right  to  gladness  even  here  ;  and  when  the  curtain  closes, 
we  prolong  the  action,  without  effort  ;  the  next  day  as 
the  last,  our  Caird  and  our  Balladmonger  are  singing  and 
soldiering ;  their  '  brats *  and  callets ' 2  are  hawking,  beg- 

10  ging,  cheating ;  and  some  other  night,  in  new  combinations, 
they  will  wring  from  Fate  another  hour  of  wassail  and 
good  cheer.  Apart  from  the  universal  sympathy  with 
man  which  this  again  bespeaks  in  Burns,  a  genuine  in- 
spiration and  no  inconsiderable  technical  talent  are  man- 

15  ifested  here.  There  is  the  fidelity,  humour,  warm  life 
and  accurate  painting  and  grouping  of  some  Teniers,  for 
whom  hostlers  and  carousing  peasants  are  not  without 
significance.  It  would  be  strange,  doubtless,  to  call  this 
the  best  of  Burns's  writings :  we  mean  to  say  only,  that 

20  it  seems  to  us  the  most  perfect  of  its  kind,  as  a  piece  of 
poetical  composition,  strictly  so  called.  In  the  Beggars' 
Opera,  in  the  Beggars'  Bush,  as  other  critics  have  already 
remarked,  there  is  nothing  which,  in  real  poetic  vigour, 
equals  this  Cantata;  nothing,  as  we  think,  which  comes 

25  within  many  degrees  of  it. 

But  by  far  the  most  finished,  complete  and  truly  in- 
spired pieces  of  Burns  are,  without  dispute,  to  be  found 
among  his  Songs.     It  is  here  that,  although  through  a 
small  aperture,  his  light  shines  with  least  obstruction  ;  in 
30  its  highest  beauty  and  pure  sunny  clearness.    The  reason 
may  be,  that  Song  is  a  brief  simple  species  of  composi- 
tion ;  and  requires  nothing  so  much  for  its  perfection  as 
i  Rags.  2  Wenches. 


BURNS.  33 

genuine  poetic  feeling,  genuine  music  of  heart.  Yet  the 
Song  has  its  rules  equally  with  the  Tragedy ;  rules  which 
in  most  cases  are  poorly  fulfilled,  in  many  cases  are  not 
so  much  as  felt.  We  might  write  a  long  essay  on  the 
Songs  of  Burns ;  which  we  reckon  by  far  the  best  that  5 
Britain  has  yet  produced  :  for  indeed,  since  the  era  of 
Queen  Elizabeth,  we  know  not  that,  by  any  other  hand, 
aught  truly  worth  attention  has  been  accomplished  in  this 
department.  True,  we  have  songs  enough  '  by  persons 
of  quality';  we  have  tawdry,  hollow,  wine-bred  madrigals;  10* 
many  a  rhymed  speech  '  in  the  flowing  and  watery  vein 
of  Ossorius  the  Portugal  Bishop,'  rich  in  sonorous  words, 
and,  for  moral,  dashed  perhaps  with  some  tint  of  a  senti- 
mental sensuality;  all  which  many  persons  cease  not 
from  endeavouring  to  sing;  though  for  most  part,  we  15 
fear,  the  music  is  but  from  the  throat  outwards,  or  at  best 
from  some  region  far  enough  short  of  the  Soul;  not  in 
which,  but  in  a  certain  inane  Limbo  of  the  Fancy,  or  even 
in  some  vaporous  debateable-land  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
Nervous  System,  most  of  such  madrigals  and  rhymed  20 
speeches  seem  to  have  originated. 

With  the  Songs  of  Burns  we  must  not  name  these 
things.  Independently  of  the  clear,  manly,  heartfelt  senti- 
ment that  ever  pervades  his  poetry,  his  Songs  are  honest 
in  another  point  of  view :  in  form,  as  well  as  in  spirit.  25 
They  do  not  affect  to  be  set  to  music,  but  they  actually 
and  in  themselves  are  music  ;  they  have  received  their 
life,  and  fashioned  themselves  together,  in  the  medium  of 
Harmony,  as  Venus  rose  from  the  bosom  of  the  sea. 
The  story,  the  feeling,  is  not  detailed,  but  suggested  ;  not  3° 
said,  or  spouted,  in  rhetorical  completeness  and  co- 
herence ;  but  sung,  in  fitful  gushes,  in  glowing  hints,  in 
fantastic  breaks,  in  warb  lings  not  of  the  voice  only,  but 
of  the  whole  mind.  We  consider  this  to  be  the  essence 


34  BURNS. 

of  a  song;  and  that  no  songs  since  the  little  careless 
catches,  and  as  it  were  drops  of  song,  which  Shakspeare 
has  here  and  there  sprinkled  over  his  Plays,  fulfil  this 
condition  in  nearly  the  same  degree  as  most  of  Burns's 
5  do.  Such  grace  and  truth  of  external  movement,  too, 
presupposes  in  general  a  corresponding  force  and  truth 
of  sentiment  and  inward  meaning.  The  Songs  of  Burns 
are  not  more  perfect  in  the  former  quality  than  in  the 
latter.  With  what  tenderness  he  sings,  yet  with  what 

10  vehemence  and  entireness  !  There  is  a  piercing  wail  in 
his  sorrow,  the  purest  rapture  in  his  joy  ;  he  burns  with 
the  sternest  ire,  or  laughs  with  the  loudest  or  sliest 
mirth  ;  and  yet  he  is  sweet  and  soft,  '  sweet  as  the  smile 
when  fond  lovers  meet,  and  soft  as  their  parting  tear.' 

15  If  we  farther  take  into  account  the  immense  variety  of 
his  subjects ;  how,  from  the  loud  flowing  revel  in  Willie 
brew'd  a  Peck  o'  Mant,  to  the  still,  rapt  enthusiasm  of  sad- 
ness for  Mary  in  Heaven  ;  from  the  glad  kind  greeting  of 
Auld  Langsyne,  or  the  comic  archness  of  Duncan  Gray, 

20  to  the  fire-eyed  fury  of  Scots  wha  hae  wir  Wallace  bled, 
he  has  found  a  tone  and  words  for  every  mood  of  man's 
heart, —  it^wIITlieem  a  small  praise  if  we  rank  him  as  the 
first  of  all  our  Song-writers  ;  for  we  know  not  where  to 
find  one  worthy  of  being  second  to  him. 

25  It  is  on  his  sorigspas"  we  believe,  that  Burns's  chief 
influence  as  an  author  will  ultimately  be  found  to  de- 
pend :  nor,  if  our  Fletcher's  aphorism  is  true,  shall  we 
account  this  a  small  influence.  *  Let  me  make  the  songs 
of  a  people,'  said  he,  '  and  you  shall  make  its  laws.' 

30  Surely,  if  ever  any  Poet  might  have  equalled  himself  with 
Legislators  on  this  ground,  it  was  Burns.  His  Songs  are 
already  part  of  the  mother-tongue,  not  of  Scotland  only 
but  of  Britain,  and  of  the  millions  that  in  all  ends  of  the 
earth  speak  a  British  language.  In  hut  and  hall,  as  the 


BURNS.  35 

heart  unfolds  itself  in  many-coloured  joy  and  woe  of 
existence,  the  name,  the  voice  of  that  joy  and  that  woe,  is 
the  name  and  voice  which  Burns  has  given  them. 
Strictly  speaking,  perhaps  no  British  man  has  so  deeply 
affected  the  thoughts  and  feelings  of  so  many  men,  as  5 
this  solitary  and  altogether  private  individual,  with  means 
apparently  the  humblest. 

In  another  point  of  view,  moreover,  we  incline  to  think 
that  Burnsrs  influence  may  have  been  considerable  :  we 
mean,  as  exerted  specially  on  the  Literature  of  his  coun-  10 
try,  at  least  on  the  Literature  of  Scotland.  Among  the 
great  changes  which  British,  particularly  Scottish  litera- 
ture, has  undergone  since  that  period,  one  of  the  greatest 
will  be  found  to  consist  in  its  remarkable  increase  of 
nationality.  Even  the  English  writers,  most  popular  in  15 
Burns's  Fime,  were  little  distinguished  for  their  literary 
patriotism,  in  this  its  best  sense.  A  certain  attenuated 
cosmopolitanism  had,  in  good  measure,  taken  place  of  the 
old  insular  home-feeling  ;  literature  was,  as  it  were,  with- 
out any  local  environment  ;  was  not  nourished  by  the  20 
affections  which  spring  from  a  native  soil.  Our  Grays 
and  Glovers  seemed  to  write  almost  as  if  in  vacuo  ;  the 
thing  written  bears  no  mark  of  place  ;  it  is  not  written  so 
much  for  Englishmen,  as  for  men  ;  or  rather,  which  is 
the  inevitable  result  of  this,  for  certain  Generalisations  2S 
which  philosophy  termed  men.  Goldsmith  is  an  excep- 
tion :  not  so  Johnson ;  the  scene  of  his  Rambler  is  little 
more  English  than  that  of  his  Rasselas. 

But  if  such  was,  in  some  degree,  the  case  with  England, 
it  was,  in  the  highest  degree,  the  case  with  Scotland.  In  3° 
fact,  our  Scottish  literature  had,  at  that  period,  a  very 
singular  aspect ;  unexampled,  so  far  as  we  know,  except 
perhaps  at  Geneva,  where  the  same  state  of  matters  ap- 
pears still  to  continue.  For  a  long  period  after  Scotland 


36  BURNS. 

became  British,  we  had  no  literature  :  at  the  date  when 
Addison  and  Steele  were  writing  their  Spectators,  our  good 
John  Boston  was  writing,  with  the  noblest  intent,  but 
alike  in  defiance  of  grammar  and  philosophy,  his  Four- 
5  fold  State  of  Man.  Then  came  the  schisms  in  our 
National  Church,  and  the  fiercer  schisms  in  our  Body 
Politic :  Theologic  ink,  and  Jacobite  blood,  with  gall 
enough  in  both  cases,  seemed  to  have  blotted  out  the 
intellect  of  the  country  :  however,  it  was  only  obscured, 

10  not  obliterated.  Lord  Kames  made  nearly  the  first 
attempt  at  writing  English  ;  and  ere  long,  Hume,  Robert- 
son, Smith,  and  a  whole  host  of  followers,  attracted  hither 
the  eyes  of  all  Europe.  And  yet  in  this  brilliant  resus- 
citation of  our  'fervid  genius,'  there  was  nothing  truly 

15  Scottish,  nothing  indigenous  ;  except,  perhaps,  the  natural 
impetuosity  of  intellect,  which  we  sometimes  claim,  and 
are  sometimes  upbraided  with,  as  a  characteristic  of  our 
nation.  It  is  curious  to  remark  that  Scotland,  so  full  of 
writers,  had  no  Scottish  culture,  nor  indeed  any  English  ; 

20  our  culture  was  almost  exclusively  French.  It  was  by 
studying  Racine  and  Voltaire,  Batteux  and  Boileau,  that 
Kames  had  trained  himself  to  be  a  critic  and  philosopher  ; 
it  was  the  light  of  Montesquieu  and  Mably  that  guided 
Robertson  in  his  political  speculations  ;  Quesnay's  lamp 

25  that  kindled  the  lamp  of  Adam  Smith.  Hume  was  too 
rich  a  man  to  borrow ;  and  perhaps  he  reacted  on  the 
French  more  than  he  was  acted  on  by  them  :  but  neither 
had  he  aught  to  do  with  Scotland  ;  Edinburgh,  equally 
with  La  Fleche,  was  but  the  lodging  and  laboratory,  in 

3°  which  he  not  so  much  morally  lived,  as  metaphysically 
investigated.  Never,  perhaps,  was  there  a  class  of  writers 
so  clear  and  well-ordered,  yet  so  totally  destitute,  to  all 
appearance,  of  any  patriotic  affection,  nay  of  any  human 
affection  whatever.  The  French  wits  of  the  period  were 


BURNS.  37 

as  unpatriotic  :  but  their  general  deficiency  in  moral  prin- 
ciple, not  to  say  their  avowed  sensuality  and  unbelief  in 
all  virtue,  strictly  so  called,  render  this  accountable 
enough.  We  hope,  there  is  a  patriotism  founded  on 
something  better  than  prejudice ;  that  our  country  may  5 
be  dear  to  us,  without  injury  to  our  philosophy  ;  that  in 
loving  and  justly  prizing  all  other  lands,  we  may  prize 
justly,  and  yet  love  before  all  others,  our  own  stern 
Motherland,  and  the  venerable  Structure  of  social  and 
moral  Life,  which  Mind  has  through  long  ages  been  10 
building  up  for  us  there.  Surely  there  is  nourishment  *or 
the  better  part  of  man's  heart  in  all  this :  surely  the  roots, 
that  have  fixed  themselves  in  the  very  core  of  man's 
being,  may  be  so  cultivated  as  to  grow  up  not  into  briers, 
but  into  roses,  in  the  field  of  his  life  !  Our  Scottish  sages  15 
have  no  such  propensities :  the  field  of  their  life  shows 
neither  briers  nor  roses  ;  but  only  a  flat,  continuous 
thrashing-floor  for  Logic,  whereon  all  questions,  from  the 
*  Doctrine  of  Rent '  to  the  *  Natural  History  of  Religion,' 
are  thrashed  and  sifted  with  the  same  mechanical  im-  20 
partiality  ! 

With  Sir  Walter  Scott  at  the  head  of  our  literature,  it 
cannot  be  denied  that  much  of  this  evil  is  past,  or  rapidly 
passing  away  :  our  chief  literary  men,  whatever  other 
faults  they  may  have,  no  longer  live  among  us  like  a  25 
French  Colony,  or  some  knot  of  Propaganda  Mission- 
aries ;  but  like  natural-born  subjects  of  the  soil,  partak- 
ing and  sympathising  in  all  our  attachments,  humours 
and  habits.  Our  literature  no  longer  grows  in  water  but 
in  mould,  and  with  the  true  racy  virtues  of  the  soil  and  3° 
climate.  How  much  of  this  change  may  be  due  to  Burns, 
or  to  any  other  individual,  it  might  be  difficult  to  estimate. 
Direct  literary  imitation  of  Burns  was  not  to  be  looked 
for.  But  his  example,  in  the  fearless  adoption  of  domes- 


38  BURNS. 

tic  subjects,  could  not  but  operate  from  afar  ;  and  cer- 
tainly in  no  heart  did  the  love  of  country  ever  burn  with 
a  warmer  glow  than  in  that  of  Burns :  '  a  tide  of  Scottish 
prejudice,'  as  he  modestly  calls  this  deep  and  generous 
5  feeling,  '  had  been  poured  along  his  veins ;  and  he  felt 
that  it  would  boil  there  till  the  flood-gates  shut  in  eter- 
nal rest.'  It  seemed  to  him,  as  if  he  could  do  so  little 
for  his  country,  and  yet  would  so  gladly  have  done  all. 
One  small  province  stood  open  for  him, — that  of  Scot- 

10  tish  Song ;  and  how  eagerly  he  entered  on  it,  how  de- 
votedly he  laboured  there  !  In  his  toilsome  journeyings, 
this  object  never  quits  him  ;  it  is  the  little  happy-valley 
of  his  careworn  heart.  In  the  gloom  of  his  own  afflic- 
tion, he  eagerly  searches  after  some  lonely  brother  of  the 

15  muse,  and  rejoices  to  snatch  one  other  name  from  the 
oblivion  that  was  covering  it  !  These  were  early  feelings, 
and  they  abode  with  him  to  the  end  : 

...  A  wish  (I  mind  its  power), 
A  wish,  that  to  my  latest  hour 
20  Will  strongly  heave  my  breast,  — 

That  I,  for  poor  auld  Scotland's  sake, 
Some  useful  plan  or  book  could  make, 
Or  sing  a  sang  at  least. 

The  rough  bur  Thistle  spreading  wide 
25  Amang  the  bearded  bear, 

I  turn'd  my  weeding-clips  aside, 
And  spared  the  symbol  dear. 

But  to  leave  the  mere  literary  character  of  Burns, 
which  has  already  detained  us  too  long.  Far  more  inter- 
30  esting  than  any  of  his  written  works,  as  it  appears  to  u% 
are  his  acted  ones :  the  Life  he  willed  and  was  fated  to 
lead  among  his  fellow-men.  These  Poems  are  but  like 
little  rhymed  fragments  scattered  here  and  there  in  the 


BURNS.  39 

grand  unrhymed  Romance  of  his  earthly  existence-;  and 
it  is  only  when  intercalated  in  this  at  their  proper  places, 
that  they  attain  their  full  measure  of  significance.  And 
this,  too,  alas,  was  but  a  fragment  !  The  plan  of  a 
mighty  edifice  had  been  sketched;  some  columns,  por-  5 
ticos,  firm  masses  of  building,  stand  completed  ;  the  rest 
more  or  less  clearly  indicated ;  with  many  a  far-stretching 
tendency,  which  only  studious  and  friendly  eyes  can  now 
trace  towards  the  purposed  termination.  For  the  work 
is  broken  off  in  the  middle,  almost  in  the  beginning  ;  10 
and  rises  among  us,  beautiful  and  sad,  at  once  unfinished 
and  a  ruin  !  If  charitable  judgment  was  necessary  in 
estimating  his  Poems,  and  justice  required  that  the  aim 
and  the  manifest  power  to  fulfil  it  must  often  be  accepted 
for  the  fulfilment ;  much  more  is  this  the  case  in  regard  15 
to  his  Life,  the  sum  and  result  of  all  his  endeavours,  where 
his  difficulties  came  upon  him  not  in  detail  only,  but  in 
mass  ;  and  so  much  has  been  left  unaccomplished,  nay 
was  mistaken,  and  altogether  marred. 

Properly  speaking,  there  is  but  one  era  in  the  life  of  20 
Burns,  and  that  the  earliest.     We  have   not  youth  and 
manhood,  but  only  youth  :  for,  to  the  end,  we  discern  no 
decisive  change  in  the  complexion  of  his  character  ;    in 
his  thirty-seventh  year,  he  is  still,  as  it  were,  in  youth. 
With  all  that  resoluteness  of  judgment,  that  penetrating  25 
insight,  and  singular  maturity  of  intellectual  power,  ex- 
hibited in  his  writings,  he  never  attains  to  any  clearness 
regarding  himself ;    to  the  last,  he  never  ascertains  his 
peculiar  aim,  even  with  such  distinctness  as  is  common 
among  ordinary  men  ;   and  therefore  never  can  pursue  it  30 
with  that  singleness  of  will,  which  insures  success  and 
some  contentment  to  such  men.     To  the  last,  he  wavers 
between  two  purposes  :   glorying  in  his  talent,  like  a  true 
poet,  he  yet  cannot  consent  to  make  this  his  chief  and 


40  BUKNS. 

sole  glory,  and  to  follow  it  as  the  one  thing  needful, 
through  poverty  or  riches,  through  good  or  evil  report. 
Another  far  meaner  ambition  still  cleaves  to  him  ;  he 
must  dream  and  struggle  about  a  certain  '  Rock  of  Inde- 
5  pendence ; '  which,  natural  and  even  admirable  as  it 
might  be,  was  still  but  a  warring  with  the  world,  on  the 
comparatively  insignificant  ground  of  his  being  more 
completely  or  less  completely  supplied  with  money  than 
others  ;  of  his  standing  at  a  higher  or  at  a  lower  altitude 

10  in  general  estimation  than  others.  For  the  world  still 
appears  to  him,  as  to  the  young,  in  borrowed  colours :  he 
expects  from  it  what  it  cannot  give  to  any  man  ;  seeks 
for  contentment,  not  within  himself,  in  action  and  wise 
effort,  but  from  without,  in  the  kindness  of  circumstances, 

15  in  love,  friendship,  honour,  pecuniary  ease.  He  would 
be  happy,  not  actively  and  in  himself,  but  passively  and 
from  some  ideal  cornucopia  of  Enjoyments,  not  earned  by 
his  own  labour,  but  showered  on  him  by  the  beneficence 
of  Destiny.  Thus,  like  a  young  man,  he  cannot  gird 

20  himself  up  for  any  worthy  well-calculated  goal,  but 
swerves  to  and  fro,  between  passionate  hope  and  re- 
morseful disappointment  :  rushing  onwards  with  a  deep 
tempestuous  force,  he  surmounts  or  breaks  asunder  many 
a  barrier  ;  travels,  nay  advances  far,  but  advancing  only 

25  under  uncertain  guidance,  is  ever  and  anon  turned  from 
his  path ;  and  to  the  last  cannot  reach  the  only  true  hap- 
piness of  a  man,  that  of  clear  decided  Activity  in  the 
sphere  for  which,  by  nature  and  circumstances,  he  has 
been  fitted  and  appointed. 

30  We  do  not  say  these  things  in  dispraise  of  Burns  ;  nay, 
perhaps,  they  but  interest  us  the  more  in  his  favour. 
This  blessing  is  not  given  soonest  to  the  best ;  but  rather, 
it  is  often  the  greatest  minds  that  are  latest  in  obtaining 
it ;  for  where  most  is  to  be  developed,  most  time  may  be 


BURNS.  41 

required  to  develop  it.  A  complex  condition  had  been 
assigned  him  from  without  ;  as  complex  a  condition  from 
within  :  no  'preestablished  harmony'  existed  between  the 
clay  soil  of  Mossgiel  and  the  empyrean  soul  of  Robert 
Burns  ;  it  was  not  wonderful  that  the  adjustment  between  5 
them  should  have  been  long  postponed,  and  his  arm  long 
cumbered,  and  his  sight  confused,  in  so  vast  and  discord- 
ant an  economy  as  he  had  been  appointed  steward  over. 
Byron  was,  at  his  death,  but  a  year  younger  than  Burns ; 
and  through  life,  as  it  might  have  appeared,  far  more  10 
simply  situated :  yet  in  him  too  we  can  trace  no  such 
adjustment,  no  such  moral  manhood;  but  at  best,  and 
only  a  little  before  his  end,  the  beginning  of  what  seemed 
such. 

By  much  the  most  striking  incident  in  Burns's  Life  is  15 
his   journey   to    Edinburgh;    but  perhaps    a   still   more 
important  one  is  his  residence  at  Irvine,  so  early  as  in 
his  twenty-third  year.     Hitherto  his  life  had  been  poor 
and   toilworn  ;    but   otherwise   not   ungenial,    and,   with 
all  its  distresses,  by  no  means  unhappy.     In  his  parent-  20 
age,    deducting   outward   circumstances,    he   had    every 
reason  to  reckon   himself  fortunate.     His  father  was  a 
man    of   thoughtful,    intense,    earnest   character,   as    the 
best  of  our  peasants  are  ;   valuing  knowledge,  possessing 
some,  and  what  is  far  better  and  rarer,  openminded  for  25 
more  :  a   man  with    a   keen  insight   and  devout  heart  ; 
reverent   towards   God,  friendly  therefore   at  once,  and 
fearless  towards  all  that  God  has  made:    in  one  word, 
though  but  a  hard-handed  peasant,  a  complete  and  fully 
unfolded  Man.     Such  a  father  is  seldom  found  in  any  30 
rank   in    society  ;    and    was    worth    descending   far    in 
society  to  seek.     Unfortunately,  he  was  very  poor  ;  had 
he  been  even   a  little  richer,  almost  never  so  little,  the 
whole  might  have  issued  far  otherwise.     Mighty  events 


42  BURNS. 

turn  on  a  straw ;  the  crossing  of  a  brook  decides  the  con- 
quest of  the  world.  Had  this  William  Burns's  small 
seven  acres  of  nursery-ground  anywise  prospered,  the  boy 
Robert  had  been  sent  to  school  ;  had  struggled  forward, 

5  as  so  many  weaker  men  do,  to  some  university ;  come 
forth  not  as  a  rustic  wonder,  but  as  a  regular  well-trained 
intellectual  workman,  and  changed  the  whole  course  of 
British  Literature,  —  for  it  lay  in  him  to  have  done  this  ! 
But  the  nursery  did  not  prosper  ;  poverty  sank  his 

10  whole  family  below  the  help  of  even  our  cheap  school- 
system  :  Burns  remained  a  hard-worked  ploughboy,  and 
British  literature  took  its  own  course.  Nevertheless, 
even  in  this  rugged  scene  there  is  much  to  nourish  him. 
If  he  drudges,  it  is  with  his  brother,  and  for  his  father 

15  and  mother,  whom  he  loves,  and  would  fain  shield  from 
want.  Wisdom  is  not  banished  from  their  poor  hearth, 
nor  the  balm  of  natural  feeling :  the  solemn  words,  Let 
us  worship  God,  are  heard  there  from  a  'priest-like 
father' ;  if  threatenings  or  unjust  men  throw  mother  and 

20  children  into  tears,  these  are  tears  not  of  grief  only,  but 
of  holiest  affection  ;  every  heart  in  that  humble  group 
feels  itself  the  closer  knit  to  every  other  ;  in  their  hard 
warfare  they  are  there  together,  a  *  little  band  of  breth- 
ren.' Neither  are  such  tears,  and  the  deep  beauty  that 

25  dwells  in  them,  their  only  portion.  Light  visits  the 
hearts  as  it  does  the  eyes  of  all  living :  there  is  a  force, 
too,  in  this  youth,  that  enables  him  to  trample  on  misfor- 
tune;  nay  to  bind  it  under  his  feet«to  make  him  sport. 
For  a  bold,  warm,  buoyant  humour  of  character  has  been 

30  given  him  ;  and  so  the  thick-coming  shapes  of  evil  are 
welcomed  with  a  gay,  friendly  irony,  and  in  their  closest 
pressure  he  bates  no  jot  of  heart  or  hope.  Vague  yearn- 
ings of  ambition  fail  not,  as  he  grows  up  ;  dreamy  fancies 
hang  like  cloud-cities  around  him ;  the  curtain  of  Exist- 


BURNS.  43 

ence  is  slowly  rising,  in  many-coloured  splendour  and 
gloom  :  and  the  auroral  light  of  first  love  is  gilding  his 
horizon,  and  the  music  of  song  is  on  his  path  ;  and  so  he 
walks 

in  glory  and  in  joy,  5 

Behind  his  plough,  upon  the  mountain  side. 

We  ourselves  know,  from  the  best  evidence,  that  up  to 
this  date  Burns  was  happy ;  nay  that  he  was  the  gayest, 
brightest,  most  fantastic,  fascinating  being  to  be  found 
in  the  world ;  more  so  even  than  he  ever  afterwards  10 
appeared.  But  now,  at  this  early  age,  he  quits  the  pa- 
ternal roof  ;  goes  forth  into  looser,  louder,  more  exciting 
society ;  and  becomes  initiated  in  those  dissipations, 
those  vices,  which  a  certain  class  of  philosophers  have 
asserted  to  be  a  natural  preparative  for  entering  on  active  15 
life ;  a  kind  of  mud-bath,  in  which  the  youth  is,  as  it 
were,  necessitated  to  steep,  and,  we  suppose,  cleanse 
himself,  before  the  real  toga  of  Manhood  can  be  laid  on 
him.  We  shall  not  dispute  much  with  this  class  of  phi- 
losophers ;  we  hope  they  are  mistaken ;  for  Sin  and  Re-  20 
morse  so  easily  beset  us  at  all  stages  of  life,  and  are 
always  such  indifferent  company,  that  it  seems  hard  we 
should,  at  any  stage,  be  forced  and  fated  not  only  to 
meet  but  to  yield  to  them,  and  even  serve  for  a  term  in 
their  leprous  armada.  We  hope  it  is  not  so.  Clear  we  25 
are,  at  all  events,  it  cannot  be  the  training  one  receives 
in  this  Devil's  service,  but  only  our  determining  to  desert 
from  it,  that  fits  us  for  true  manly  Action.  We  become 
men,  not  after  we  have  been  dissipated,  and  disappointed 
in  the  chase  of  false  pleasure  ;  but  after  we  have  ascer-  30 
tained,  in  any  way,  what  impassable  barriers  hem  us  in 
through  this  life ;  how  mad  it  is  to  hope  for  content- 
ment to  our  infinite  soul  from  the  gifts  of  this  extremely 


44  BURNS. 

finite  world ;  that  a  man  must  be  sufficient  for  himself  •, 
and  that  for  suffering  and  enduring  there  is  no  remedy 
but  striving  and  doing.  Manhood  begins  when  we  have 
in  any  way  made  truce  with  Necessity ;  begins  even 
5  when  we  have  surrendered  to  Necessity,  as  the  most  part 
only  do  ;  but  begins  joyfully  and  hopefully  only  when 
we  have  reconciled  ourselves  to  Necessity  ;  and  thus,  in 
reality,  triumphed  over  it,  and  felt  that  in  Necessity  we 
are  free.  Surely,  such  lessons  as  this  last,  which,  in  one 

10  shape  or  other,  is  the  grand  lesson  for  every  mortal  man, 
are  better  learned  from  the  lips  of  a  devout  mother,  in 
the  looks  and  actions  of  a  devout  father,  while  the  heart 
is  yet  soft  and  pliant,  than  in  collision  with  the  sharp 
adamant  of  Fate,  attracting  us  to  shipwreck  us,  when  the 

15  heart  is  grown  hard,  and  may  be  broken  before  it  will 
become  contrite.  Had  Burns  continued  to  learn  this,  as 
he  was  already  learning  it,  in  his  father's  cottage,  he 
would  have  learned  it  fully,  which  he  never  did  ;  and 
been  saved  many  a  lasting  aberration,  many  a  bitter  hour 

20  and  year  of  remorseful  sorrow. 

It  seems  to  us  another  circumstance  of  fatal  import  in 
Burns's  history,  that  at  this  time  too  he  became  involved 
in  the  religious  quarrels  of  his  district ;  that  he  was 
enlisted  and  feasted,  as  the  fighting  man  of  the  New- 

25  Light  Priesthood,  in  their  highly  unprofitable  warfare. 
At  the  tables  of  these  free-minded  clergy  he  learned  much 
more  than  was  needful  for  him.  Such  liberal  ridicule  of 
fanaticism  awakened  in  his  mind  scruples  about  Religion 
itself  ;  and  a  whole  world  of  Doubts,  which  it  required 

30  quite  another  set  of  conjurors  than  these  men  to  exor- 
cise. We  do  not  say  that  such  an  intellect  as  his  could 
have  escaped  similar  doubts  at  some  period  of  his 
history  ;  or  even  that  he  could,  at  a  later  period,  have 
come  through  them  altogether  victorious  and  unharmed : 


BURNS.  45 

but  it  seems  peculiarly  unfortunate  that  this  time,  above 
all  others,  should  have  been  fixed  for  the  encounter. 
For  now,  with  principles  assailed  by  evil  example  from 
without,  by  *  passions  raging  like  demons'  from  within,  he 
had  little  need  of  sceptical  misgivings  to  whisper  treason  5 
in  the  heat  of  the  battle,  or  to  cut  off  his  retreat  if  he 
were  already  defeated.  He  loses  his  feeling  of  inno- 
cence ;  his  mind  is  at  variance  with  itself  ;  the  old  divinity 
no  longer  presides  there  ;  but  wild  Desires  and  wild 
Repentance  alternately  oppress  him.  Ere  long,  too,  he  10 
has  committed  himself  before  the  world  ;  his  character 
for  sobriety,  dear  to  a  Scottish  peasant  as  few  corrupted 
worldlings  can  even  conceive,  is  destroyed  in  the  eyes  of 
men ;  and  his  only  refuge  consists  in  trying  to  disbelieve 
his  guiltiness,  and  is  but  a  refuge  of  lies.  The  blackest  15 
desperation  now  gathers  over  him,  broken  only  by  red 
lightnings  of  remorse.  The  whole  fabric  of  his  life  is 
blasted  asunder  ;  for  now  not  only  his  character,  but  his 
personal  liberty,  is  to  be  lost ;  men  and  Fortune  are 
leagued  for  his  hurt ;  '  hungry  Ruin  has  him  in  the  wind.'  20 
He  sees  no  escape  but  the  saddest  of  all :  exile  from  his 
loved  country,  to  a  country  in  every  sense  inhospitable 
and  abhorrent  to  him.  While  the  '  gloomy  night  is 
gathering  fast,'  in  mental  storm  and  solitude,  as  well  as 
in  physical,  he  sings  his  wild  farewell  to  Scotland:  25 

Farewell,  my  friends  ;  farewell,  my  foes  ! 
My  peace  with  these,  my  love  with  those  : 
The  bursting  tears  my  heart  declare  ; 
Adieu,  my  native  banks  of  Ayr  1 

Light  breaks  suddenly  in  on  him  in  floods  ;  but  still  a  30 
false  transitory  light,  and  no  real  sunshine.     He  is  in- 
vited   to  Edinburgh  ;    hastens  thither  with   anticipating 
heart ;  is  welcomed  as  in  a  triumph,  and  with  universal 


46  BURNS. 

blandishment  and  acclamation  ;  whatever  is  wisest,  what- 
ever is  greatest  or  loveliest  there,  gathers  round  him,  to 
gaze  on  his  face,  to  show  him  honour,  sympathy,  affection. 
Burns's  appearance  among  the  sages  and  nobles  of 
5  Edinburgh  must  be  regarded  as  one  of  the  most  singular 
phenomena  in  modern  Literature  ;  almost  like  the 
appearance  of  some  Napoleon  among  the  crowned  sover- 
eigns of  modern  Politics.  For  it  is  nowise  as  *  a  mockery 
king/  set  there  by  favour,  transiently  and  for  a  pur- 

10  pose,  that  he  will  let  himself  be  treated  ;  still  less  is 
he  a  mad  Rienzi,  whose  sudden  elevation  turns  his  too 
weak  head  :  but  he  stands  there  on  his  own  basis  ;  cool, 
unastonished,  holding  his  equal  rank  from  Nature  herself  ; 
putting  forth  no  claim  which  there  is  not  strength  in  him, 

15  as  well  as  about  him,  to  vindicate.  Mr.  Lockhart  has 
some  forcible  observations  on  this  point : 

'  It  needs  no  effort  of  imagination,'  says  he,  '  to  conceive 
what  the  sensations  of  an  isolated  set  of  scholars  (almost  all 
either  clergymen  or  professors)  must  have  been  in  the  presence 

20  of  this  big-boned,  black-browed,  brawny  stranger,  with  his 
great  flashing  eyes,  who,  having  forced  his  way  among  them 
from  the  plough-tail  at  a  single  stride,  manifested  in  the  whole 
strain  of  his  bearing  and  conversation  a  most  thorough  con- 
viction, that  in  the  society  of  the  most  eminent  men  of  his 

25  nation  he  was  exactly  where  he  was  entitled  to  be  ;  hardly 
deigned  to  flatter  them  by  exhibiting  even  an  occasional  symp- 
tom of  being  flattered  by  their  notice  ;  by  turns  calmly 
measured  himself  against  the  most  cultivated  understandings 
of  his  time  in  discussion  ;  overpowered  the  bon  mots  of  the 

30  most  celebrated  convivialists  by  broad  floods  of  merriment, 
impregnated  with  all  the  burning  life  of  genius  ;  astounded 
bosoms  habitually  enveloped  in  the  thrice-piled  folds  of  social 
reserve,  by  compelling  them  to  tremble, —  nay,  to  tremble 
visibly, —  beneath  the  fearless  touch  of  natural  pathos  ;  and 

35  all  this  without  indicating  the  smallest  willingness  to  be  ranked 


BURNS.  47 

among  those  professional  ministers  of  excitement,  who  are 
content  "to  be  paid  in  money  and  smiles  for  doing  what  the 
spectators  and  auditors  would  be  ashamed  of  doing  in  their 
own  persons,  even  if  they  had  the  power  of  doing  it ;  and  last, 
and  probably  worst  of  all,  who  was  known  to  be  in  the  habit  S 
of  enlivening  societies  which  they  would  have  scorned  to  ap- 
proach, still  more  frequently  than  their  own,  with  eloquence 
no  less  magnificent  ;  with  wit,  in  all  likelihood  still  more 
daring  ;  often  enough,  as  the  superiors  whom  he  fronted  with- 
out alarm  might  have  guessed  from  the  beginning,  and  had  ere  10 
long  no  occasion  to  guess,  with  wit  pointed  at  themselves.' 

The  farther  we  remove  from  this  scene,  the  more 
singular  will  it  seem  to  us  :  details  of  the  exterior  aspect 
of  it  are  already  full  of  interest.  Most  readers  recollect 
Mr.  Walker's  personal  interviews  with  Burns  as  among  15 
the  best  passages  of  his  Narrative  :  a  time  will  come  when 
this  reminiscence  of  Sir  Walter  Scott's,  slight  though  it 
is,  will  also  be  precious : 

'  As  for  Burns,'  writes  Sir  Walter,  '  I  may  truly  say, 
Virgilium  vidi  tantilm.  I  was  a  lad  of  fifteen  in  1786-7,  20 
when  he  came  first  to  Edinburgh,  but  had  sense  and  feeling 
enough  to  be  much  interested  in  his  poetry,  and  would  have 
given  the  world  to  know  him  :  but  I  had  very  little  acquaint- 
ance with  any  literary  people,  and  still  less  with  the  gentry  of 
the  west  country,  the  two  sets  that  he  most  frequented.  Mr.  25 
Thomas  Grierson  was  at  that  time  a  clerk  of  my  father's.  He 
knew  Burns,  and  promised  to  ask  him  to  his  lodgings  to  din- 
ner ;  but  had  no  opportunity  to  keep  his  word  ;  otherwise  I 
might  have  seen  more  of  this  distinguished  man.  As  it  was, 
I  saw  him  one  day  at  the  late  venerable  Professor  Ferguson's,  30 
where  there  were  several  gentlemen  of  literary  reputation, 
among  whom  I  remember  the  celebrated  Mr.  Dugald  Stewart. 
Of  course,  we  youngsters  sat  silent,  looked  and  listened.  The 
only  thing  I  remember  which  was  remarkable  in  Burns's 
manner,  was  the  effect  produced  upon  him  by  a  print  of  35 


48  BURNS. 

Bunbury's,  representing  a  soldier  lying  dead  on  the  snow,  his 
dog  sitting  in  misery  on  one  side, —  on  the  other,  his  widow, 
with  a  child  in  her  arms.  These  lines  were  written  beneath  : 

"  Cold  on  Canadian  hills,  or  Minden's  plain, 
^  Perhaps  that  mother  wept  her  soldier  slain ; 

Bent  o'er  her  babe,  her  eye  dissolved  in  dew, 
The  big  drops  mingling  with  the  milk  he  drew, 
Gave  the  sad  pressage  of  his  future  years, 
The  child  of  misery  baptised  in  tears." 

10  '  Burns  seemed  much  affected  by  the  print,  or  rather  by  the 
ideas  which  it  suggested  to  his  mind.  He  actually  shed  tears. 
He  asked  whose  the  lines  were  ;  and  it  chanced  that  nobody 
but  myself  remembered  that  they  occur  in  a  half-forgotten 
poem  of  Langhorne's  called  by  the  unpromising  title  of  "The 

15  Justice  of  Peace."  I  whispered  my  information  to  a  friend 
present  ;  he  mentioned  it  to  Burns,  who  rewarded  me  with 
a  look  and  a  word,  which,  though  of  mere  civility,  I  then  re- 
ceived and  still  recollect  with  very  great  pleasure. 

*  His  person  was  strong  and  robust ;    his  manners  rustic, 

20  not  clownish  ;  a  sort  of  dignified  plainness  and  simplicity, 
which  received  part  of  its  effect  perhaps  from  one's  knowledge 
of  his  extraordinary  talents.  His  features  are  represented  in 
Mr.  Nasmyth's  picture  :  but  to  me  it  conveys  the  idea  that 
they  are  diminished,  as  if  seen  in  perspective.  I  think  his 

25  countenance  was  more  massive  than  it  looks  in  any  of  the 
portraits.  I  should  have  taken  the  poet,  had  I  not  known  what 
he  was,  for  a  very  sagacious  country  farmer  of  the  old  Scotch 
school,  i.e.  none  of  your  modern  agriculturists  who  keep 
labourers  for  their  drudgery,  but  the  douce  L  gudeman  who  held 

30  his  own  plough.  There  was  a  strong  expression  of  sense  and 
shrewdness  in  all  his  lineaments  ;  the  eye  alone,  I  think,  in- 
dicated the  poetical  character  and  temperament.  It  was 
large,  and  of  a  dark  cast,  which  glowed  (I  say  literally  glowed} 
when  he  spoke  with  feeling  or  interest.  I  never  saw  such 

35  another  eye  in  a  human  head,  though  I  have  seen  the  most 

1  Sedate. 


BURNS.  49 

distinguished  men  of  my  time.  His  conversation  expressed 
perfect  self-confidence,  without  the  slightest  presumption. 
Among  the  men  who  were  the  most  learned  of  their  time  and 
country,  he  expressed  himself  with  perfect  firmness,  but  with- 
out the  least  intrusive  forwardness  ;  and  when  he  differed  in  5 
opinion,  he  did  not  hesitate  to  express  it  firmly,  yet  at  the  same 
time  with  modesty.  I  do  not  remember  any  part  of  his  con- 
versation distinctly  enough  to  be  quoted  ;  nor  did  I  ever  see 
him  again,  except  in  the  street,  where  he  did  not  recognise  me, 
as  I  could  not  expect  he  should.  He  was  much  caressed  in  10 
Edinburgh  :  but  (considering  what  literary  emoluments  have 
been  since  his  day)  the  efforts  made  for  his  relief  were  ex- 
tremely trifling. 

*  I  remember,  on  this  occasion  I  mention,  I  thought  Burns's 
acquaintance  with  English  poetry  was  rather  limited  ;  and  also  15 
that,  having  twenty  times  the  abilities  of  Allan  Ramsay  and  of 
Ferguson,  he  talked  of  them  with  too  much  humility  as  his 
models  :  there  was  doubtless  national  predilection  in  his  esti- 
mate. 

'  This  is  all  \  can  tell  you  about  Burns.     I  have  only  to  add,  20 
that  his  dress  corresponded  with  his  manner.     He  was  like  a 
farmer  dressed  in  his  best  to  dine  with  the  laird.      I  do  not 
speak  in  malam  partem,  when  I  say,  I  never  saw  a  man  in 
company  with  his  superiors  in  station  or  information   more 
perfectly  free   from   either   the   reality  or  the  affectation   of  25 
embarrassment.     I  was  told,  but  did  not  observe  it,  that  his 
address  to  females  was  extremely  deferential,  and  always  with 
a  turn  either  to  the  pathetic  or  humorous,  which  engaged  their 
attention   particularly.     I    have    heard   the   late    Duchess   of 
Gordon  remark  this.     I  do  not  know  anything  I  can  add  to  30 
these  recollections  of  forty  years  since.' 

The  conduct  of    Burns  under   this  dazzling   blaze  of 
favour ;  the  calm,  unaffected,  manly  manner  in  which  he 
not  only  bore  it,  but  estimated  its  value,  has  justly  been 
regarded  as  the  best  proof  that  could  be  given  of  his  real  35 
vigour   and  integrity  of   mind.     A  little  natural  vanity, 


50  BURNS. 

some  touches  of  hypocritical  modesty,  some  glimmerings 
of  affectation,  at  least  some  fear  of  being  thought  affected, 
we  could  have  pardoned  in  almost  any  man  ;  but  no  such 
indication  is  to  be  traced  here.  In  his  unexampled  situ- 
5  ation  the  young  peasant  is  not  a  moment  perplexed  ;  so 
many  strange  lights  do  not  confuse  him,  do  not  lead  him 
astray.  Nevertheless,  we  cannot  but  perceive  that  this 
winter  did  him  great  and  lasting  injury.  A  somewhat 
clearer  knowledge  of  men's  affairs,  scarcely  of  their  char- 

10  acters,  it  did  afford  him  ;  but  a  sharper  feeling  of 
Fortune's  unequal  arrangements  in  their  social  destiny  it 
also  left  with  him.  He  had  seen  the  gay  and  gorgeous 
arena,  in  which  the  powerful  are  born  to  play  their  parts  ; 
nay  had  himself  stood  in  the  midst  of  it ;  and  he  felt  more 

15  bitterly  than  ever,  that  here  he  was  but  a  looker-on,  and 
had  no  part  or  lot  in  that  splendid  game.  From  this  time  a 
jealous  indignant  fear  of  social  degradation  takes  posses- 
sion of  him  ;  and  perverts,  so  far  as  aught  could  pervert, 
his  private  contentment,  and  his  feelings  towards  his 

20  richer  fellows.  It  was  clear  to  Burns  that  he  had  talent 
enough  to  make  a  fortune,  or  a  hundred  fortunes,  could 
he  but  have  rightly  willed  this ;  it  was  clear  also  that  he 
willed  something  far  different,  and  therefore  could  not 
make  one.  Unhappy  it  was  that  he  had  not  power  to 

25  choose  the  one,  and  reject  the  other ;  but  must  halt  for- 
ever between  two  opinions,  two  objects  ;  making  ham- 
pered advancement  towards  either.  But  so  is  it  with 
many  men  :  we  'long  for  the  merchandise,  yet  would  fain 
keep  the  price ; '  and  so  stand  chaffering  with  Fate,  in 

30  vexatious  altercation,  till  the  night  come,  and  our  fair  is 
over  ! 

The  Edinburgh  Learned  of  that  period  were  in  general 
more  noted  for  clearness  of  head  than  for  warmth  of 
heart:  with  the  exception  of  the  good  old  Blacklock, 


BURNS.  51 

whose  help  was  too  ineffectual,  scarcely  one  among  them 
seems  to  have  looked  at  Burns  with  any  true  sympathy, 
or  indeed  much  otherwise  than  as  at  a  highly  curious  thing. 
By  the  great  also  he  is  treated  in  the  customary  fashion ; 
entertained  at  their  tables  and  dismissed  :  certain  modica  5 
of  pudding  and  praise  are,  from  time  to  time,  gladly  ex- 
changed for  the  fascination  of  his  presence ;  which 
exchange  once  effected,  the  bargain  is  finished,  and  each 
party  goes  his  several  way.  At  the  end  of  this  strange 
season,  Burns  gloomily  sums  up  his  gains  and  losses,  and  10 
meditates  on  the  chaotic  future.  In  money  he  is  some- 
what richer  ;  in  fame  and  the  show  of  happiness, 
infinitely  richer  ;  but  in  the  substance  of  it,  as  poor  as 
ever.  Nay  poorer  ;  for  his  heart  is  now  maddened  still 
more  with  the  fever  of  worldly  Ambition  ;  and  through  15 
long  years  the  disease  will  rack  him  with  unprofitable 
sufferings,  and  weaken  his  strength  for  all  true  and 
nobler  aims. 

What  Burns  was  next  to  do  or  to  avoid  ;  how  a  man  so 
circumstanced  was  now  to  guide  himself  towards  his  true  20 
advantage,  might  at  this  point  of  time  have  been  a  ques- 
tion for  the  wisest.  It  was  a  question  too,  which  appar- 
ently he  was  left  altogether  to  answer  for  himself  :  of  his 
learned  or  rich  patrons  it  had  not  struck  any  individual 
to  turn  a  thought  on  this  so  trivial  matter.  Without  25 
claiming  for  Burns  the  praise  of  perfect  sagacity,  we  must 
say,  that  his  Excise  and  Farm  scheme  does  not  seem  to 
us  a  very  unreasonable  one  ;  that  we  should  be  at  a  loss, 
even  now,  to  suggest  one  decidedly  better.  Certain  of 
his  admirers  have  felt  scandalised  at  his  ever  resolving  30 
to  gauge  ;  and  would  have  had  him  lie  at  the  pool,  till  the 
spirit  of  Patronage  stirred  the  waters,  that  so,  with  one 
friendly  plunge,  all  his  sorrows  might  be  healed.  Un- 
wise counsellors  !  They  know  not  the  manner  of  this 


52  BURNS. 

spirit ;  and  how,  in  the  lap  of  most  golden  dreams,  a  mar* 
might  have  happiness,  were  it  not  that  in  the  interim  he 
must  die  of  hunger !  It  reflects  credit  on  the  manliness 
and  sound  sense  of  Burns,  that  he  felt  so  early  on  what 
5  ground  he  was  standing  ;  and  preferred  self-help,  on  the 
humblest  scale,  to  dependence  and  inaction,  though  with 
hope  of  far  more  splendid  possibilities.  But  even  these 
possibilities  were  not  rejected  in  his  scheme  :  he  might 
expect,  if  it  chanced  that  he  had  any  friend,  to  rise,  in  no 

10  long  period,  into  something  even  like  opulence  and 
leisure  ;  while  again,  if  it  chanced  that  he  had  no  friend,  he 
could  still  live  in  security  ;  and  for  the  rest,  he  '  did  not 
intend  to  borrow  honour  from  any  profession.'  We  reckon 
that  his  plan  was  honest  and  well  calculated:  all  turned  on 

15  the  execution  of  it.  Doubtless  it  failed;  yet  not,  we  be- 
lieve, from  any  vice  inherent  in  itself.  Nay,  after  all,  it 
was  no  failure  of  external  means,  but  of  internal,  that 
overtook  Burns.  His  was  no  bankruptcy  of  the  purse,  but 
of  the  soul ;  to  his  last  day,  he  owed  no  man  anything. 

20  Meanwhile  he  begins  well :  with  two  good  and  wise 
actions.  His  donation  to  his  mother,  munificent  from  a 
man  whose  income  had  lately  been  seven  pounds  a  year, 
was  worthy  of  him,  and  not  more  than  worthy.  Generous 
also,  and  worthy  of  him,  was  the  treatment  of  the  woman 

25  whose  life's  welfare  now  depended  on  his  pleasure.  A 
friendly  observer  might  have  hoped  serene  days  for  him : 
his  mind  is  on  the  true  road  to  peace  with  itself  :  what 
clearness  he  still  wants  will  be  given  as  he  proceeds  ; 
for  the  best  teacher  of  duties,  that  still  lie  dim  to  us,  is 

30  the  Practice  of  those  we  see  and  have  at  hand.  Had  the 
*  patrons  of  genius,'  who  could  give  him  nothing,  but 
taken  nothing  from  him,  at  least  nothing  more  !  The 
wounds  of  his  heart  would  have  healed,  vulgar  ambition 
would  have  died  away.  Toil  and  Frugality  would  have 


BURNS.  S3 

been  welcome,  since  Virtue  dwelt  with  them ;  and  Poetry 
would  have  shone  through  them  as  of  old  :  and  in  her 
clear  ethereal  light,  which  was  his  own  by  birthright,  he 
might  have  looked  down  on  his  earthly  destiny,  and  all 
its  obstructions,  not  with  patience  only,  but  with  love.  5 

But  the  patrons  of  genius  would  not  have  it  so. 
Picturesque  tourists,1  all  manner  of  fashionable  danglers 
after  literature,  and,  far  worse,  all  manner  of  convivial 
Maecenases,  hovered  round  him  in  his  retreat ;  and  his 
good  as  well  as  his  weak  qualities  secured  them  influence  10 
over  him.  He  was  flattered  by  their  notice  ;  and  his 
warm  social  nature  made  it  impossible  for  him  to  shake 
them  off,  and  hold  on  his  way  apart  from  them.  These 
men,  as  we  believe,  were  proximately  the  means  of  his 
ruin.  Not  that  they  meant  him  any  ill  ;  they  only  meant  15 
themselves  a  little  good  ;  if  he  suffered  harm,  let  him  look 
to  it !  But  they  wasted  his  precious  time  and  his  precious 
talent;  they  disturbed  his  composure,  broke  down  his 
returning  habits  of  temperance  and  assiduous  contented 
exertion.  Their  pampering  was  baneful  to  him;  their  20 

1  There  is  one  little  sketch  by  certain  '  English  gentlemen  '  of 
this  class,  which,  though  adopted  in  Carrie's  Narrative,  and  since 
then  repeated  in  most  others,  we  have  all  along  felt  an  invincible 
disposition  to  regard  as  imaginary :  '  On  a  rock  that  projected  into 
the  stream,  they  saw  a  man  employed  in  angling,  of  a  singular  ap- 
pearance. He  had  a  cap  made  of  fox-skin  on  his  head,  a  loose 
greatcoat  fixed  round  him  by  a  belt,  from  which  depended  an  enor- 
mous Highland  broad-sword.  It  was  Burns.'  Now,  we  rather 
think,  it  was  not  Burns.  For,  to  say  nothing  of  the  fox-skin  cap, 
the  loose  and  quite  Hibernian  watchcoat  with  the  belt,  what  are  we 
to  make  of  this  '  enormous  Highland  broad-sword  '  depending  from 
him  ?  More  especially,  as  there  is  no  word  of  parish  constables  on 
the  outlook  to  see  whether,  as  Dennis  phrases  it,  he  had  an  eye  to 
his  own  midriff  or  that  of  the  public  !  Burns,  of  all  men,  had  the 
least  need,  and  the  least  tendency,  to  seek  for  distinction,  either  in 
his  own  eyes,  or  those  of  others,  by  such  poor  mummeries. 


54  BURNS. 

cruelty,  which  soon  followed,  was  equally  baneful.  The 
old  grudge  against  Fortune's  inequality  awoke  with  new 
bitterness  in  their  neighbourhood ;  and  Burns  had  no  re- 
treat but  to  *  the  Rock  of  Independence,'  which  is  but  an 
5  air-castle  after  all,  that  looks  well  at  a  distance,  but  will 
screen  no  one  from  real  wind  and  wet.  Flushed  with 
irregular  excitement,  exasperated  alternately  by  contempt 
of  others,  and  contempt  of  himself,  Burns  was  no  longer 
regaining  his  peace  of  mind,  but  fast  losing  it  forever. 

10  There  was  a  hollo wn  ess  at  the  heart  of  his  life,  for  his 
conscience  did  not  now  approve  what  he  was  doing. 

Amid  the  vapours  of  unwise  enjoyment,  of  bootless 
remorse,  and  angry  discontent  with  Fate,  his  true  load- 
star, a  life  of  Poetry,  with  Poverty,  nay  with  Famine  if  it 

15  must  be  so,  was  too  often  altogether  hidden  from  his 
eyes.  And  yet  he  sailed  a  sea,  where  without  some  such 
loadstar  there  was  no  right  steering.  Meteors  of  French 
Politics  rise  before  him,  but  these  were  not  his  stars.  An 
accident  this,  which  hastened,  but  did  not  originate,  his 

20  worst  distresses.  In  the  mad  contentions  of  that  time, 
he  comes  in  collision  with  certain  official  Superiors  ;  is 
wounded  by  them ;  cruelly  lacerated,  we  should  say, 
could  a  dead  mechanical  implement,  in  any  case,  be 
called  cruel:  and  shrinks,  in  indignant  pain,  into  deeper 

25  self-seclusion,  into  gloomier  moodiness  than  ever.  His 
life  has  now  lost  its  unity  :  it  is  a  life  of  fragments  ;  led 
with  little  aim,  beyond  the  melancholy  one  of  securing  its 
own  continuance,  —  in  fits  of  wild  false  joy  when  such 
offered,  and  of  black  despondency  when  they  passed 

3°  away.  His  character  before  the  world  begins  to  suffer  : 
calumny  is  busy  with  him  ;  for  a  miserable  man  makes 
more  enemies  than  friends.  Some  faults  he  has  fallen 
into,  and  a  thousand  misfortunes ;  but  deep  criminality 
is  what  he  stands  accused  of,  and  they  that  are  not  with- 


BURNS.  55 

out  sin  cast  the  first  stone  at  him  !  For  is  he  not  a  well- 
wisher  to  the  French  Revolution,  a  Jacobin,  and  there- 
fore in  that  one  act  guilty  of  all  ?  These  accusations, 
political  and  moral,  it  has  since  appeared,  were  false 
enough  :  but  the  world  hesitated  little  to  credit  them.  5 
Nay  his  convivial  Maecenases  themselves  were  not  the 
last  to  do  it.  There  is  reason  to  believe  that,  in  his 
later  years,  the  Dumfries  Aristocracy  had  partly  with- 
drawn themselves  from  Burns,  as  from  a  tainted  person, 
no  longer  worthy  of  their  acquaintance.  That  painful  10 
class,  stationed,  in  all  provincial  cities,  behind  the  out- 
most breastwork  of  Gentility,  there  to  stand  siege  and  do 
battle  against  the  intrusions  of  Grocerdom  and  Grazier- 
dom,  had  actually  seen  dishonour  in  the  society  of  Burns, 
and  branded  him  with  their  veto;  had,  as  we  vulgarly  15 
say,  cut  him  !  We  find  one  passage  in  this  Work  of  Mr. 
Lockhart's,  which  will  not  out  of  our  thoughts  : 

'  A  gentleman  of  that  county,  whose  name  I  have  already 
more  than  once  had  occasion  to  refer  to,  has  often  told  me 
that  he  was  seldom  more  grieved,  than  when  riding  into  Dum-  20 
fries  one  fine  summer  evening  about  this  time  to  attend  a 
county  ball,  he  saw  Burns  walking  alone,  on  the  shady  side  of 
the  principal  street  of  the  town,  while  the  opposite  side  was 
gay  with  successive  groups  of  gentlemen  and  ladies,  all  drawn 
together  for  the  festivities  of  the  night,  not  one  of  whom  25 
appeared  willing  to  recognise  him.  The  horseman  dismounted, 
and  joined  Burns,  who  on  his  proposing  to  cross  the  street 
said  :  "  Nay,  nay,  my  young  friend,  that's  all  over  now;  "  and 
quoted,  after  a  pause,  some  verses  of  Lady  Grizzel  Baillie's 
pathetic  ballad  :  30 

"  His  bonnet  stood  ance  fu'  fair  on  his  brow, 
His  auld  ane  look'd  better  than  mony  ane's  new; 
But  now  he  lets  't  wear  ony  way  it  will  hing, 
And  casts  himsell  dowie l  upon  the  corn-bing. 

1  Worn-out. 


56  BURNS. 

O,  were  we  young  as  we  ance  hae  been, 

We  sud  hae  been  galloping  down  on  yon  green, 

And  linking 1  it  ower  the  lily-white  lea  ! 

And  werena  my  heart  light,  I  wad  die." 

5  It  was  little  in  Burns's  character  to  let  his  feelings  on  certain 
subjects  escape  in  this  fashion.  He,  immediately  after  recit- 
ing these  verses,  assumed  the  sprightliness  of  his  most  pleasing 
manner;  and  taking  his  young  friend  home  with  him,  enter- 
tained him  very  agreeably  till  the  hour  of  the  ball  arrived.' 

10  Alas  !  when  we  think  that  Burns  now  sleeps  *  where 
bitter  indignation  can  no  longer  lacerate  his  heart,' 2  and 
that  most  of  those  fair  dames  and  frizzled  gentlemen 
already  lie  at  his  side,  where  the  breastwork  of  gentility 
is  quite  thrown  down, — who  would  not  sigh  over  the 

15  thin  delusions  and  foolish  toys  that  divide  heart  from 
heart,  and  make  man  unmerciful  to  his  brother  ! 

It  was  not  now  to  be  hoped  that  the  genius  of  Burns 
would  ever  reach  maturity,  or  accomplish  aught  worthy 
of  itself.  His  spirit  was  jarred  in  its  melody;  not  the 

20  soft  breath  of  natural  feeling,  but  the  rude  hand  of  Fate, 
was  now  sweeping  over  the  strings.  And  yet  what  har- 
mony was  in  him,  what  music  even  in  his  discords  !  How 
the  wild  tones  had  a  charm  for  the  simplest  and  the 
wisest ;  and  all  men  felt  and  knew  that  here  also  was  one 

25  of  the  Gifted  !  '  If  he  entered  an  inn  at  midnight,  after 
all  the  inmates  were  in  bed,  the  news  of  his  arrival  circu- 
lated from  the  cellar  to  the  garret  ;  and  ere  ten  minutes 
had  elapsed,  the  landlord  and  all  his  guests  were  assem- 
bled ! '  Some  brief  pure  moments  of  poetic  life  were  yet 

30  appointed  him,  in  the  composition  of  his  Songs.  We 
can  understand  how  he  grasped  at  this  employment ;  and 
how  too,  he  spurned  all  other  reward  for  it  but  what  the 

1  Tripping. 

2  Ubi  sceva  indignatio  cor  ulterius  lacerare  nequit.  Swift's  Epitaph. 


BURNS.  57 

labour  itself  brought  him.  For  the  soul  of  Burns,  though 
scathed  and  marred,  was  yet  living  in  its  full  moral 
strength,  though  sharply  conscious  of  its  errors  and 
abasement  :  and  here,  in  his  destitution  and  degradation, 
was  one  act  of  seeming  nobleness  and  self-devotedness  5 
left  even  for  him  to  perform.  He  felt  too,  that  with  all 
the  '  thoughtless  follies'  that  had  '  laid  him  low,'  the  world 
was  unjust  and  cruel  to  him  ;  and  he  silently  appealed 
to  another  and  calmer  time.  Not  as  a  hired  soldier, 
but  as  a  patriot,  would  he  strive  for  the  glory  of  his  10 
country  :  so  he  cast  from  him  the  poor  sixpence  a  day, 
and  served  zealously  as  a  volunteer.  Let  us  not  grudge 
him  this  last  luxury  of  his  existence  ;  let  him  not  have 
appealed  to  us  in  vain  !  The  money  was  not  necessary 
to  him ;  he  struggled  through  without  it :  long  since,  1 5 
these  guineas  would  have  been  gone,  and  now  the  high- 
mindedness  of  refusing  them  will  plead  for  him  in  all 
hearts  forever. 

We  are  here  arrived  at  the  crisis  of  Burns's  life;  for 
matters  had  now  taken  such  a  shape  with  him  as  could  20 
not  long  continue.  If  improvement  was  not  to  be  looked 
for,  Nature  could  only  for  a  limited  time  maintain  this 
dark  and  maddening  warfare  against  the  world  and  itself. 
We  are  not  medically  informed  whether  any  continuance 
of  years  was,  at  this  period,  probable  for  Burns ;  whether  25 
his  death  is  to  be  looked  on  as  in  some  sense  an  acciden- 
tal event,  or  only  as  the  natural  consequence  of  the  long 
series  of  events  that  had  preceded.  The  latter  seems  to 
be  the  likelier  opinion  ;  and  yet  it  is  by  no  means  a  cer- 
tain one.  At  all  events,  as  we  have  said,  some  change  30 
could  not  be  very  distant.  Three  gates  of  deliverance, 
it  seems  to  us,  were  open  for  Burns  :  clear  poetical 
activity  ;  madness  ;  or  death.  The  first,  with  longer  life, 
was  still  possible,  though  not  probable ;  for  physical 


58  BURNS. 

causes  were  beginning  to  be  concerned  in  it :  and  yet 
Burns  had  an  iron  resolution;  could  he  but  have  seen 
and  felt,  that  not  only  his  highest  glory,  but  his  first 
duty,  and  the  true  medicine  for  all  his  woes,  lay  here. 
5  The  second  was  still  less  probable ;  for  his  mind  was 
ever  among  the  clearest  and  firmest.  So  the  milder 
third  gate  was  opened  for  him:  and  he  passed,  not 
softly  yet  speedily,  into  that  still  country,  where  the 
hail-storms  and  fire-showers  do  not  reach,  and  the  heavi- 
10  est-laden  wayfarer  at  length  lays  down  his  load  ! 

Contemplating  this  sad  end  of  Burns,  and  how  he 
sank  unaided  by  any  real  help,  uncheered  by  any  wise 
sympathy,  generous  minds  have  sometimes  figured  to 
themselves,  with  a  reproachful  sorrow,  that  much  might 

15  have  been  done  for  him;  that  by  counsel,  true  affection 
and  friendly  ministrations,  he  might  have  been  saved  to 
himself  and  the  world.  We  question  whether  there  is 
not  more  tenderness  of  heart  than  soundness  of  judg- 
ment in  these  suggestions.  It  seems  dubious  to  us 

20  whether  the  richest,  wisest,  most  benevolent  individual 
could  have  lent  Burns  any  effectual  help.  Counsel, 
which  seldom  profits  any  one,  he  did  not  need ;  in  his 
understanding,  he  knew  the  right  from  the  wrong,  as 
well  perhaps  as  any  man  ever  did  ;  but  the  persuasion, 

25  which  would  have  availed  him,  lies  not  so  much  in  the 
head  as  in  the  heart,  where  no  argument  or  expostula- 
tion could  have  assisted  much  to  implant  it.  As  to 
money  again,  we  do  not  believe  that  this  was  his  essen- 
tial want ;  or  well  see  how  any  private  man  could,  even 

30  presupposing  Burns's  consent,  have  bestowed  on  him  an 
independent  fortune,  with  much  prospect  of  decisive 
advantage.  It  is  a  mortifying  truth,  that  two  men  in 
any  rank  of  society,  could  hardly  be  found  virtuous 


BURNS.  59 

enough  to  give  money,  and  to  take  it  as  a  necessary 
gift,  without  injury  to  the  moral  entireness  of  one  or 
both.  But  so  stands  the  fact  :  Friendship,  in  the  old 
heroic  sense  of  that  term,  no  longer  exists  ;  except  in 
the  cases  of  kindred  or  other  legal  affinity,  it  is  in  reality  5 
no  longer  expected,  or  recognised  as  a  virtue  among 
men.  A  close  observer  of  manners  has  pronounced 
*  Patronage,'  that  is,  pecuniary  or  other  economic  further- 
ance, to  be  'twice  cursed';  cursing  him  that  gives,  and 
him  that  takes  !  And  thus,  in  regard  to  outward  matters  10 
also,  it  has  become  the  rule,  as  in  regard  to  inward  it 
always  was  and  must  be  the  rule,  that  no  one  shall  look 
for  effectual  help  to  another ;  but  that  each  shall  rest 
contented  with  what  help  he  can  afford  himself.  Such, 
we  say,  is  the  principle  of  modern  Honour  ;  naturally  15 
enough  growing  out  of  that  sentiment  of  Pride,  which  we 
inculcate  and  encourage  as  the  basis  of  our  whole  social 
morality.  Many  a  poet  has  been  poorer  than  Burns ; 
but  no  one  was  ever  prouder  :  we  may  question  whether, 
without  great  precautions,  even  a  pension  from  Royalty  20 
would  not  have  galled  and  encumbered,  more  than 
actually  assisted  him. 

Still  less,  therefore,  are  we  disposed  to  join  with  another 
class  of  Burns's  admirers,  who  accuse  the  higher  ranks 
among  us  of  having  ruined  Burns  by  their  selfish  neglect  25 
of  him.  We  have  already  stated  our  doubts  whether  direct 
pecuniary  help,  had  it  been  offered,  would  have  been 
accepted,  or  could  have  proved  very  effectual.  We  shall 
readily  admit,  however,  that  much  was  to  be  done  for 
Burns;  that  many  a  poisoned  arrow  might  have  been  30 
warded  from  his  bosom;  many  an  entanglement  in  his 
path  cut  asunder  by  the  hand  of  the  powerful ;  and  light 
and  heat,  shed  on  him  from  high  places,  would  have 
made  his  humble  atmosphere  more  genial ;  and  the  soft- 


60  BURNS, 

est  heart  then  breathing  might  have  lived  and  died  with 
some  fewer  pangs.  Nay,  we  shall  grant  farther,  and  for 
Burns  it  is  granting  much,  that,  with  all  his  pride,  he 
would  have  thanked,  even  with  exaggerated  gratitude,  any 
5  one  who  had  cordially  befriended  him:  patronage,  unless 
once  cursed,  needed  not  to  have  been  twice  so.  At  all 
events,  the  poor  promotion  he  desired  in  his  calling  might 
have  been  granted  :  it  was  his  own  scheme,  therefore 
likelier  than  any  other  to  be  of  service.  All  this  it  might 

10  have  been  a  luxury,  nay  it  was  a  duty,  for  our  nobility  to 
have  done.  No  part  of  all  this,  however,  did  any  of  them 
do ;  or  apparently  attempt,  or  wish  to  do  :  so  much  is 
granted  against  them.  But  what  then  is  the  amount  of 
their  blame  ?  Simply  that  they  were  men  of  the  world, 

15  and  walked  by  the  principles  of  such  men  ;  that  they 
treated  Burns,  as  other  nobles  and  other  commoners  had 
done  other  poets  ;  as  the  English  did  Shakspeare ;  as 
King  Charles  and  his  Cavaliers  did  Butler,  as  King 
Philip  and  his  Grandees  did  Cervantes.  Do  men  gather 

20  grapes  of  thorns  ;  or  shall  we  cut  down  our  thorns  for 
yielding  only  a  fence  and  haws  ?  How,  indeed,  could  the 
'nobility  and  gentry  of  his  native  land'  hold  out  any  help 
to  this  *  Scottish  Bard,  proud  of  his  name  and  country '  ? 
Were  the  nobility  and  gentry  so  much  as  able  rightly 

25  to  help  themselves  ?  Had  they  not  their  game  to  pre- 
serve ;  their  borough  interests  to  strengthen;  dinners, 
therefore,  of  various  kinds  to  eat  and  give  ?  Were  their 
means  more  than  adequate  to  all  this  business,  or  less  than 
adequate  ?  Less  than  adequate,  in  general ;  few  of  them 

30  in  reality  were  richer  than  Burns  ;  many  of  them  were 
poorer  ;  for  sometimes  they  had  to  wring  their  supplies, 
as  with  thumbscrews,  from  the  hard  hand ;  and,  in  their 
need  of  guineas,  to  forget  their  duty  of  mercy  ;  which 
Burns  was  never  reduced  to  do.  Let  us  pity  and  forgive 


BUXATS.  61 

them.  The  game  they  preserved  and  shot,  the  dinners 
they  ate  and  gave,  the  borough  interests  they  strengthened, 
the  little  Babylons  they  severally  builded  by  the  glory  of 
their  might,  are  all  melted  or  melting  back  into  the  pri- 
meval Chaos,  as  man's  merely  selfish  endeavours  are  fated  5 
to  do  :  and  here  was  an  action,  extending,  in  virtue  of  its 
worldly  influence,  we  may  say,  through  all  time ;  in  virtue 
of  its  moral  nature,  beyond  all  time,  being  immortal  as 
the  Spirit  of  Goodness  itself;  this  action  was  offered 
them  to  do,  and  light  was  not  given  them  to  do  it.  Let  us  10 
pity  and  forgive  them.  But  better  than  pity,  let  us  go 
and  do  otherwise.  Human  suffering  did  not  end  with  the 
life  of  Burns;  neither  was  the  solemn  mandate,  ' Love 
one  another,  bear  one  another's  burdens,'  given  to  the 
rich  only,  but  to  all  men.  True,  we  shall  find  no  Burns  15 
to  relieve,  to  assuage  by  our  aid  or  our  pity;  but  celestial 
natures,  groaning  under  the  fardels  of  a  weary  life,  we 
shall  still  find ;  and  that  wretchedness  which  Fate  has 
rendered  voiceless  and  tuneless  is  not  the  least  wretched, 
but  the  most.  20 

Still,  we  do  not  think  that  the  blame  of  Burns's  failure 
lies  chiefly  with  the  world.     The  world,  it  seems  to  us, 
treated  him  with  more  rather  than  with  less  kindness  than 
it  usually  shows  to  such  men.     It  has  ever,  we  fear, 
shown   but    small  favour  to  its  Teachers:    hunger  and  25 
nakedness,  perils  and  revilings,  the  prison,  the  cross,  the     . 
poison-chalice  have,  in  most  times  and  countries,  been  the 
market-price  it  has  offered  for  Wisdom,  the  welcome  with 
which  it  has  greeted  those  who  have  come  to  enlighten 
and   purify  it.     Homer  and  Socrates,  and  the  Christian  30 
Apostles,  belong  to  old  days;  but  the  world's   Martyr- 
ology  was  not  completed  with  these.     Roger  Bacon  and 
Galileo  languish  in  priestly  dungeons;  Tasso  pines  in  the 
cell  of  a  madhouse;  Camoens  dies  begging  on  the  streets  of 


62  BURNS. 

Lisbon.  So  neglected,  so  '  persecuted  they  the  Prophets,' 
not  in  Judea  only,  but  in  all  places  where  men  have  been. 
We  reckon  that  every  poet  of  Burns's  order  is,  or  should 
be,  a  prophet  and  teacher  to  his  age  ;  that  he  has  no 
5  right  to  expect  great  kindness  from  it,  but  rather  is 
bound  to  do  it  great  kindness ;  that  Burns,  in  particular, 
experienced  fully  the  usual  proportion  of  the  world's 
goodness ;  and  that  the  blame  of  his  failure,  as  we  have 
said,  lies  not  chiefly  with  the  world. 

10  Where,  then,  does  it  lie  ?  We  are  forced  to  answer : 
With  himself  ;  it  is  his  inward,  not  his  outward  misfor- 
tunes that  bring  him  to  the  dust.  Seldom,  indeed,  is  it 
otherwise;  seldom  is  a  life  morally  wrecked  but  the  grand 
cause  lies  in  some  internal  mal-arrangement,  some  want 

1 5  less  of  good  fortune  than  of  good  guidance.  Nature  fash- 
ions no  creature  without  implanting  in  it  the  strength 
needful  for  its  action  and  duration  ;  least  of  all  does  she 
so  neglect  her  masterpiece  and  darling,  the  poetic  soul. 
Neither  can  we  believe  that  it  is  in  the  power  of  any  ex- 

20  ternal  circumstances  utterly  to  ruin  the  mind  of  a  man ; 
nay  if  proper  wisdom  be  given  him,  even  so  much  as  to 
affect  its  essential  health  and  beauty.  The  sternest  sum- 
total  of  all  worldly  misfortunes  is  Death  ;  nothing  more 
can  lie  in  the  cup  of  human  woe  :  yet  many  men,  in  all 

25  ages,  have  triumphed  over  Death,  and  led  it  captive; 
converting  its  physical  victory  into  a  moral  victory  for 
themselves,  into  a  real  and  immortal  consecration  for  all 
that  their  past  life  had  achieved.  What  has  been  done, 
may  be  done  again  :  nay,  it  is  but  the  degree  and  not  the 

30  kind  of  such  heroism  that  differs  in  different  seasons  ; 
for  without  some  portion  of  this  spirit,  not  of  boisterous 
daring,  but  of  silent  fearlessness,  of  Self-denial  in  all  its 
forms,  no  good  man,  in  any  scene  or  time,  has  ever 
attained  to  be  good. 


BURNS.  63 

We  have  already  stated  the  error  of  Burns;  and 
mourned  over  it,  rather  than  blamed  it.  It  was  the  want 
of  unity  in  his  purposes,  of  consistency  in  his  aims  ;  the 
hapless  attempt  to  mingle  in  friendly  union  the  common 
spirit  of  the  world  with  the  spirit  of  poetry,  which  is  of  a  5 
far  different  and  altogether  irreconcilable  nature.  Burns 
was  nothing  wholly,  and  Burns  could  be  nothing,  no  man 
formed  as  he  was  can  be  anything,  by  halves.  The  heart, 
not  of  a  mere  hot-blooded,  popular  Versemonger,  or  poet- 
ical Restaurateur,  but  of  a  true  Poet  and  Singer,  worthy  10 
of  the  old  religious  heroic  times,  had  been  given  him: 
and  he  fell  in  an  age,  not  of  heroism  and  religion,  but  of 
scepticism,  selfishness  and  triviality,  when  true  Nobleness 
was  little  understood,  and  its  place  supplied  by  a  hollow, 
dissocial,  altogether  barren  and  unfruitful  principle  of  15 
Pride.  The  influences  of  that  age,  his  open,  kind,  sus- 
ceptible nature,  to  say  nothing  of  his  highly  untoward 
situation,  made  it  more  than  usually  difficult  for  him  to 
cast  aside,  or  rightly  subordinate ;  the  better  spirit  that 
was  within  him  ever  sternly  demanded  its  rights,  its  20 
supremacy  :  he  spent  his  life  in  endeavouring  to  reconcile 
these  two ;  and  lost  it,  as  he  must  lose  it,  without  recon- 
ciling them. 

Burns  was  born  poor ;  and  born  also  to  continue  poor, 
for  he  would  not  endeavour  to  be  otherwise :  this  it  had  25 
been  well  could  he  have  once  for  all  admitted,  and  con- 
sidered as  finally  settled.  He  was  poor,  truly;  but  hun- 
dreds even  of  his  own  class  and  order  of  minds  have  been 
poorer,  yet  have  suffered  nothing  deadly  from  it:  nay, 
his  own  Father  had  a  far  sorer  battle  with  ungrateful  30 
destiny  than  his  was  ;  and  he  did  not  yield  to  it,  but  died 
courageously  warring,  and  to  all  moral  intents  prevailing, 
against  it.  True,  Burns  had  little  means,  had  even  little 
time  for  poetry,  his  only  real  pursuit  and  vocation ;  but 


64  BURNS. 

so  much  the  more  precious  was  what  little  he  had.  In  all 
these  external  respects  his  case  was  hard ;  but  very  far 
from  the  hardest.  Poverty,  incessant  drudgery  and  much 
worse  evils,  it  has  often  been  the  lot  of  Poets  and  wise 
5  men  to  strive  with,  and  their  glory  to  conquer.  Locke 
was  banished  as  a  traitor  ;  and  wrote  his  Essay  on  the 
Human  Understanding  sheltering  himself  in  a  Dutch  gar- 
ret. Was  Milton  rich  or  at  his  ease  when  he  composed 
Paradise  Lost  ?  Not  only  low,  but  fallen  from  a  height ; 

10  not  only  poor,  but  impoverished ;  in  darkness  and  with 
dangers  compassed  round,  he  sang  his  immortal  song, 
and  found  fit  audience,  though  few.  Did  not  Cervantes 
finish  his  work,  a  maimed  soldier  and  in  prison  ?  Nay, 
was  not  the  Araucana,  which  Spain  acknowledges  as  its 

15  Epic,  written  without  even  the  aid  of  paper;  on  scraps 
of  leather,  as  the  stout  fighter  and  voyager  snatched  any 
moment  from  that  wild  warfare  ? 

And  what,  then,  had  these  men,  which  Burns  wanted? 
Two  things  ;  both  which,  it  seems  to  us,  are  indispen- 

20  sable  for  such  men.  They  had  a  true,  religious  principle 
of  morals  ;  and  a  single,  not  a  double  aim  in  their  activity. 
They  were  not  self-seekers  and  self-worshippers  ;  but 
seekers  and  worshippers  of  something  far  better  than  Self. 
Not  personal  enjoyment  was  their  object  ;  but  a  high, 

25  heroic  idea  of  Religion,  of  Patriotism,  of  heavenly  Wis- 
dom, in  one  or  the  other  form,  ever  hovered  before  them ; 
in  which  cause  they  neither  shrank  from  suffering,  nor 
called  on  the  earth  to  witness  it  as  something  wonderful; 
but  patiently  endured,  counting  it  blessedness  enough  so 

30  to  spend  and  be  spent.  Thus  the  '  golden-calf  of  Self- 
love,'  however  curiously  carved,  was  not  their  Deity; 
but  the  Invisible  Goodness,  which  alone  is  man's  reason- 
able service.  This  feeling  was  as  a  celestial  fountain, 
whose  streams  refreshed  into  gladness  and  beauty  all  the 


BURNS.  65 

provinces  of  their  otherwise  too  desolate  existence.  In  a 
word,  they  willed  one  thing,  to  which  all  other  things 
were  subordinated  and  made  subservient ;  and  therefore 
they  accomplished  it.  The  wedge  will  rend  rocks;  but 
its  edge  must  be  sharp  and  single  :  if  it  be  double,  the  5 
wedge  is  bruised  in  pieces  and  will  rend  nothing. 

Part  of  this  superiority  these  men  owed  to  their  age  ;  in 
which  heroism  and  devotedness  were  still  practised,  or  at 
least  not  yet  disbelieved  in  :  but  much  of  it  likewise  they 
owed  to  themselves.    With  Burns,  again,  it  was  different.  10 
His  morality,in  most  of  its  practical  points,  is  that  of  a  mere 
worldly  man;  enjoyment,  in  a  finer  or  coarser  shape,  is 
the  only  thing  he  longs  and  strives  for.     A  noble  instinct 
sometimes  raises  him  above  this  ;  but  an  instinct  only, 
and  acting  only  for  moments.     He  has  no  Religion  ;  in  15 
the  shallow  age,  where  his  days  were  cast,  Religion  was\ 
not  discriminated  from  the  New  and  Old  Light  forms  of  / 
Religion  ;  and  was,  with  these,  becoming  obsolete  in  the 
minds  of  men.     His  heart,  indeed,  is    alive  with  a  trem- 
bling adoration,  but  there  is  no  temple  in  his  understand-  20 
ing.     He  lives  in  darkness  and  in  the  shadow  of  doubt. 
His   religion,   at  best,  is  an  anxious  wish;  like  that  of 
Rabelais,  *  a  great  Perhaps.' 

He  loved  Poetry  warmly,  and   in  his  heart;  could  he 
but  have  loved  it  purely,  and  with  his  whole  undivided  25 
heart,  it  had  been  well.     For  Poetry,  as  Burns  could  have 
followed  it,  is  but  another  form  of  Wisdom,  of  Religion; 
is  itself  Wisdom  and  Religion.     But  this  also  was  denied 
him.    His  poetry  is  a  stray  vagrant  gleam,  which  will  not 
be  extinguished  within  him,  yet  rises  not  to  be  the  true  30 
light  of  his  path,  but  is  often  a  wildfire  that  misleads  him. 
It  was  not  necessary  for  Burns  to  be  rich,  to  be,  or  to  ^X 
seem,  '  independent '  ;  but  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  be      1 
at  one  with  his  own  heart;  to  place  what  was  highest  in  his    / 


66  BURNS. 

nature  highest  also  in  his  life  ;  '  to  seek  within  himself  fof 
that  consistency  and  sequence,  which  external  events  would 
forever  refuse  him.'  He  was  born  a  poet ;  poetry  was 
the  celestial  element  of  his  being,  and  should  have  been 
5  the  soul  of  his  whole  endeavours.  Lifted  into  that  serene 
ether,  whither  he  had  wings  given  him  to  mount,  he 
would  have  needed  no  other  elevation :  poverty,  neglect 
and  all  evil,  save  the  desecration  of  himself  and  his  Art, 
were  a  small  matter  to  him ;  the  pride  and  the  passions 

10  of  the  world  lay  far  beneath  his  feet ;  and  he  looked  down 
alike  on  noble  and  slave,  on  prince  and  beggar,  and  all 
that  wore  the  stamp  of  man,  with  clear  recognition,  with 
brotherly  affection,  with  sympathy,  with  pity.  Nay,  we 
question  whether  for  his  culture  as  a  Poet  poverty  and 

15  much  suffering  for  a  season  were  not  absolutely  advan- 
tageous. Great  men,  in  looking  back  over  their  lives, 
have  testified  to  that  effect.  *  I  would  not  for  much,'  says 
Jean  Paul,  'that  I  had  been  born  richer.'  And  yet  Paul's 
birth  was  poor  enough;  for,  in  another  place,  he  adds: 

20  '  The  prisoner's  allowance  is  bread  and  water;  and  I  had 
often  only  the  latter.'  But  the  gold  that  is  refined  in  the 
hottest  furnace  comes  out  the  purest ;  or,  as  he  has  himself 
expressed  it,  '  the  canary-bird  sings  sweeter  the  longer  it 
has  been  trained  in  a  darkened  cage.' 

25  A  man  like  Burns  might  have  divided  his  hours  be- 
tween poetry  and  virtuous  industry  ;  industry  which  all 
true  feeling  sanctions,  nay  prescribes,  and  which  has 

1a  beauty,  for  that  cause,  beyond  the  pomp  of  thrones: 
but  to  divide  his  hours  between  poetry  and  rich  men's 
banquets  was  an  ill-starred  and  inauspicious  attempt. 
How  could  he  be  at  ease  at  such  banquets  ?  What  had 
he  to  do  there,  mingling  his  music  with  the  coarse  roar  of 
altogether  earthly  voices  ;  brightening  the  thick  smoke  of 
intoxication  with  fire  lent  him  from  heaven  ?  Was  it  his 


BURNS.  67 

aim  to  enjoy  life  ?  Tomorrow  he  must  go  drudge  as  an 
Exciseman  !  We  wonder  not  that  Burns  became  moody, 
indignant,  and  at  times  an  offender  against  certain  rules 
of  society  ;  but  rather  that  he  did  not  grow  utterly  frantic, 
and  ran  amuck  against  them  all.  How  could  a  man,  so  5 
falsely  placed  by  his  own  or  others'  fault,  ever  know  con- 
tentment or  peaceable  diligence  for  an  hour  ?  What  he 
did,  under  such  perverse  guidance,  and  what  he  forbore 
to  do,  alike  fill  us  with  astonishment  at  the  natural 
strength  and  worth  of  his  character.  10 

Doubtless  there  was  a  remedy  for  this  perverseness; 
but  not  in  others;  only  in  himself;  least  of  all  in  simple 
increase  of  wealth  and  worldly  *  respectability.'  We  hope 
we  have  now  heard  enough  about  the  efficacy  of  wealth 
for  poetry,  and  to  make  poets  happy.  Nay  have  we  not  15 
seen  another  instance  of  it  in  these  very  days  ?  Byron,  a 
man  of  an  endowment  considerably  less  ethereal  than  that 
of  Burns,  is  born  in  the  rank  not  of  a  Scottish  ploughman, 
but  of  an  English  peer:  the  highest  worldly  honours,  the 
fairest  worldly  career,  are  his  by  inheritance ;  the  richest  20 
harvest  of  fame  he  soon  reaps,  in  another  province,  by 
his  own  hand.  And  what  does  all  this  avail  him  ?  Is  he 
happy,  is  he  good,  is  he  true  ?  Alas,  he  has  a  poet's  soul, 
and  strives  towards  the  Infinite  and  the  Eternal ;  and  soon 
feels  that  all  this  is  but  mounting  to  the  house-top  to  25 
reach  the  stars  !  Like  Burns,  he  is  only  a  proud  man ; 
might,  like  him,  have  <  purchased  a  pocket-copy  of  Milton 
to  study  the  character  of  Satan ';  for  Satan  also  is  Byron's 
grand  exemplar,  the  hero  of  his  poetry,  and  the  model 
apparently  of  his  conduct.  As  in  Burns's  case  too,  the  3° 
celestial  element  will  not  mingle  with  the  clay  of  earth; 
both  poet  and  man  of  the  world  he  must  not  be ;  vulgar 
Ambition  will  not  live  kindly  with  poetic  Adoration;  he 
cannot  serve  God  and  Mammon.  Byron,  like  Burns,  is 


68  BUKNS. 

not  happy;  nay  he  is  the  most  wretched  of  all  men.  His 
life  is  falsely  arranged:  the  fire  that  is  in  him  is  not  a 
strong,  still,  central  fire,  warming  into  beauty  the  products 
of  a  world;  but  it  is  the  mad  fire  of  a  volcano;  and  now 

5  — we  look  sadly  into  the  ashes  of  a  crater,  which  ere  long 
will  fill  itself  with  snow  ! 

Byron  and  Burns  were  sent  forth  as  missionaries  to 
their  generation,  to  teach  it  a  higher  Doctrine,  a  purer 
Truth;  they  had  a  message  to  deliver,  which  left  them  no 

10  rest  till  it  was  accomplished;  in  dim  throes  of  pain,  this 
divine  behest  lay  smouldering  within  them;  for  they  knew 
not  what  it  meant,  and  felt  it  only  in  mysterious  anticipa- 
tion, and  they  had  to  die  without  articulately  uttering  it. 
They  are  in  the  camp  of  the  Unconverted;  yet  not  as  high* 

15  messengers  of  rigorous  though  benignant  truth,  but  as 
soft  flattering  singers,  and  in  pleasant  fellowship  will  they 
live  there:  they  are  first  adulated,  then  persecuted;  they 
accomplish  little  for  others;  they  find  no  peace  for  them- 
selves, but  only  death  and  the  peace  of  the  grave.  We 

20  confess,  it  is  not  without  a  certain  mournful  awe  that  we 
view  the  fate  of  these  noble  souls,  so  richly  gifted,  yet 
ruined  to  so  little  purpose  with  all  their  gifts.  It  seems 
to  us  there  is  a  stern  moral  taught  in  this  piece  of  history, 
—  twice  told  us  in  our  own  time  !  Surely  to  men  of  like 

25  genius,  if  there  be  any  such,  it  carries  with  it  a  lesson  of 
deep  impressive  significance.  Surely  it  would  become 
such  a  man,  furnished  for  the  highest  of  all  enterprises, 
that  of  being  the  Poet  of  his  Age,  to  consider  well  what 
it  is  that  he  attempts,  and  in  what  spirit  he  attempts  it. 

30  For  the  words  of  Milton  are  true  in  all  times,  and  were 
never  truer  than  in  this :  '  He  who  would  write  heroic 
poems  must  make  his  whole  life  a  heroic  poem.'  If  he 
cannot  first  so  make  his  life,  then  let  him  hasten  from 
this  arena;  for  neither  its  lofty  glories,  nor  its  fearful 


BURNS.  69 

perils,  are  fit  for  him.  Let  him  dwindle  into  a  modish 
balladmonger;  let  him  worship  and  besing  the  idols  of 
the  time,  and  the  time  will  not  fail  to  reward  him.  If, 
indeed,  he  can  endure  to  live  in  that  capacity  !  Byron 
and  Burns  could  not  live  as  idol-priests,  but  the  fire  of  5 
their  own  hearts  consumed  them ;  and  better  it  was  for 
them  that  they  could  not.  For  it  is  not  in  the  favour  of 
the  great  or  of  the  small,  but  in  a  life  of  truth,  and  in  the 
inexpugnable  citadel  of  his  own  soul,  that  a  Byron's  or  a 
Burns's  strength  must  lie.  Let  the  great  stand  aloof  from  10 
him,  or  know  how  to  reverence  him.  Beautiful  is  the 
union  of  wealth  with  favour  and  furtherance  for  litera- 
ture; like  the  costliest  flower-jar  enclosing  the  loveliest 
amaranth.  Yet  let  not  the  relation  be  mistaken.  A  true 
poet  is  not  one  whom  they  can  hire  by  money  or  flattery  to  15 
be  a  minister  of  their  pleasures,  their  writer  of  occasional 
verses,  their  purveyor  of  table-wit ;  he  cannot  be  their  men- 
ial, he  cannot  even  be  their  partisan.  At  the  peril  of  both 
parties,  let  no  such  union  be  attempted  !  Will  a  Courser 
of  the  Sun  work  softly  in  the  harness  of  a  Dray-horse?  20 
His  hoofs  are  of  fire,  and  his  path  is  through  the  heavens, 
bringing  light  to  all  lands;  will  he  lumber  on  mud  high- 
ways, dragging  ale  for  earthly  appetites  from  door  to  door? 
But  we  must  stop  short  in  these  considerations,  which 
would  lead  us  to  boundless  lengths.  We  had  something  25 
to  say  on  the  public  moral  character  of  Burns;  but  this 
also  we  must  forbear.  We  are  far  from  regarding  him  as 
guilty  before  the  world,  as  guiltier  than  the  a,verage ;  nay 
from  doubting  that  he  is  less  guilty  than  one  of  ten  thou- 
sand. Tried  at  a  tribunal  far  more  rigid  than  that  where  3° 
the  Plebiscita  of  common  civic  reputations  are  pronounced, 
he  has  seemed  to  us  even  there  less  worthy  of  blame  than 
of  pity  and  wonder.  But  the  world  is  habitually  unjust 
in  its  judgments  of  such  men;  unjust  on  many  grounds, 


70  BURNS. 

of  which  this  one  may  be  stated  as  the  substance:  It 
decides,  like  a  court  of  law,  by  dead  statutes;  and  not 
positively  but  negatively,  less  on  what  is  done  right,  than 
on  what  is  or  is  not  done  wrong.  Not  the  few  inches  of 
5  deflection  from  the  mathematical  orbit,  which  are  so  easily 
measured,  but  the  ratio  of  these  to  the  whole  diameter, 
constitutes  the  real  aberration.  This  orbit  may  be  a 
planet's,  its  diameter  the  breadth  of  the  solar  system ;  or 
it  may  be  a  city  hippodrome ;  nay  the  circle  of  a  ginhorse, 

10  its  diameter  a  score  of  feet  or  paces.  But  the  inches  of 
deflection  only  are  measured:  and  it  is  assumed  that  the 
diameter  of  the  ginhorse,  and  that  of  the  planet,  will  yield 
the  same  ratio  when  compared  with  them  !  Here  lies  the 
root  of  many  a  blind,  cruel  condemnation  of  Burnses, 

15  Swifts,  Rousseaus,  which  one  never  listens  to  with  ap- 
proval. Granted,  the  ship  comes  into  harbour  with  shrouds 
and  tackle  damaged;  the  pilot  is  blameworthy;  he  has  not 
been  all-wise  and  all-powerful :  but  to  know  how  blame- 
worthy, tell  us  first  whether  his  voyage  has  been  round 

20  the  Globe,  or  only  to  Ramsgate  and  the  Isle  of  Dogs. 

With  our  readers  in  general,  with  men  of  right  feeling 
anywhere,  we  are  not  required  to  plead  for  Burns.  In 
pitying  admiration  he  lies  enshrined  in  all  our  hearts,  in 
a  far  nobler  mausoleum  than  that  one  of  marble  ;  neither 

25  will  his  Works,  even  as  they  are,  pass  away  from  the 
memory  of  men.  While  the  Shakspeares  and  Miltons 
roll  on  like  mighty  rivers  through  the  country  of  Thought, 
bearing  fleets  of  traffickers  and  assiduous  pearl-fishers  on 
their  waves ;  this  little  Valclusa  Fountain  will  also  arrest 

30  our  eye:  for  this  also  is  of  Nature's  own  and  most  cun- 
ning workmanship,  bursts  from  the  depths  of  the  earth, 
with  a  full  gushing  current,  into  the  light  of  day;  and 
often  will  the  traveller  turn  aside  to  drink  of  its  clear 
waters,  and  muse  among  its  rocks  and  pines  ! 


NOTES. 


1  2.  Butler.  Are  there  not  good  reasons  why  the  author  of  Hudi 
bras  should  not  have  expected  to  be  a  general  favorite  ? 

1  15.     brave  mausoleum.     At  Dumfries,  where  Burns  spent  the  last 
five  years  of  his  life.     In  it  were  buried  the  poet,  his  wife  and  children. 

In  1820  the  foundation  stone  was  laid  for  the  monument  on  Alloway 
Croft,  near  the  Auld  Brig  of  Doon.  ^3300  was  subscribed  for  this 
purpose. 

Eleven  years  later  work  began  on  the  Edinburgh  monument,  which 
cost  even  more. 

There  are  statues  of  Burns  in  Glasgow,  Kilmarnock,  New  York, 
Dundee,  Dumfries,  London,  Albany  (N.Y.),  Ayr,  Aberdeen,  Irvine, 
Paisley,  Chicago,  and  other  places. 

2  12.     Lucy's.     It  was  in  Lucy's  park,  says  tradition,  that  Shakspere 
did  his  deer-stealing.     On  evidence  of  equal  value  is  based  the  legend 
which  names  him  as  the  author  of  a  doggerel  epitaph  on  John  \  Combe. 

2  22.    Excise  Commissioners.     Cf.  p.  10,  11.  27-30. 

2  22.  Gentlemen  of  the  Caledonian  Hunt.  A  company  of  Scottish 
noblemen  and  gentry  interested  in  field  sports.  They  allowed  Burns  to 
dedicate  to  them  the  second  edition  of  his  poems,  and  subscribed  indi- 
vidually for  copies.  Directly  and  indirectly,  the  members  of  this 
aristocratic  association  were  very  helpful  to  the  young  poet. 

2  23.  Dumfries  Aristocracy.  Dumfries,  "  a  great  stage  on  the  road 
from  England  to  Ireland,"  was  a  small  provincial  town  notable  for  its 
public  entertainments.  The  Caledonian  Hunt  sometimes  met  there ; 
the  country  gentlemen  often.  Parties  of  strangers  would  send  for 
Burns,  "  the  standing  marvel  of  the  place,"  and  he  weakly  went  to 
amuse  them  with  his  jokes,  toasts,  and  songs. 

2  25.  New  and  Old  Light  Clergy.  The  New  Lights  were  more  lib- 
eral, more  progressive  than  the  Old  Lights.  The  two  factions  of  the 
Church  were  at  sword's  points.  Burns  naturally  sympathized  with  the 
New  Lights. 


72  NOTES. 

4  3.  Constable's  Miscellany.  Constable  was  a  well-known  Edin- 
burgh publisher.  Lockharfs  Life  came  out  in  April,  1828.  The  whole 
impression  was  exhausted  in  six  weeks.  Before  the  end  of  the  year 
Carlyle's  review  of  Lockhart's  volume  had  "  raised  the  enthusiasm  of 
the  world  on  the  subject." 

4  13.  Mr.  Morris  Birkbeck,  author  of  Notes  on  a  Journey  in  America, 
from  the  Coast  of  Virginia  to  the  Territory  of  Illinois,  2d  ed.,  London- 
1818. 

6  10.  An  educated  man.  Contrast  with  this  short  life  Milton's 
period  of  preparation  for  writing.  It  has  been  said  that  the  noble  mind 
needs  abundant  leisure. 

6  26.     Condition  the  most  disadvantageous.     Cf.  p.  66,  11.  13  ff. 
"  Nay,  we  question  whether  for  his  culture  as  a  Poet  poverty  and  much 
suffering  for  a  season  were  not  absolutely  advantageous,"  etc. 

631.  Ferguson  or  Ramsay.  Ramsay,  who  died  about  a  year  before 
Burns  was  born,  has  been  called  the  most  famous  Scottish  poet  of  the 
period.  The  Gentle  Shepherd  was  a  classic  to  the  people.  Burns, 
in  writing  of  "  the  excellent  Ramsay  and  the  still  more  excellent  Fer- 
guson," shows  better  judgment  than  most  of  the  critics,  according  to 
Professor  Hugh  Walker  and  Mr.  Wallace.  These  Scottish  poets  and 
their  followers  broke  away  from  the  traditions  of  the  '  correct '  poets  arid 
practiced  "much  of  what  is  best  in  Wordsworth's  doctrine  of  poetic 
diction  and  of  the  proper  subjects  for  poetic  treatment." 

Burns  imitated  Ferguson  oftener  than  any  other  poet.  Burns  never 
forgot  his  obligations  to  Ferguson.  He  writes  :  "  Rhyme  I  had  given 
up  [on  going  to  Irvine],  but,  meeting  with  Ferguson's  Scottish  Poems, 
I  strung  anew  my  wildly  sounding  lyre  with  emulating  vigour."  And 
in  raising  a  simple  monument  to  the  memory  of  Ferguson,  he  honored 
what  was  probably  up  to  this  point  "  the  best  expression  of  the  spirit 
which  animated  himself." 

7  25.     Criticism  ...  a  cold  business.     The  world  still  needs  sym- 
pathetic critics.     Cf.  Dr.  Henry  Van  Dyke's  The  Poetry  of  Tennyson, 
a  fine  specimen  of  literary  appreciation.     Cf.  also  Matthew  Arnold's 
theory  of  criticism. 

10  25.  .ffiolian  harp.  Ruskin  says  he  knows  no  poetry  so  sorrow- 
ful as  Scott's.  "  Scott  is  inherently  and  consistently  sad.  Around  all 
his  power  and  brightness  and  enjoyment  of  eye  and  heart,  the  far-away 
^Eolian  knell  is  forever  sounding." 

10  30.  gauging  ale  barrels  !  "  The  excise  scheme  was  a  pet  one 
of  the  bard's  own,  and  consideration  of  that  fact  ought  to  have  checked 
the  indignant  utterances  of  Carlyle  and  others  of  smaller  note  who 


NOTES.  73 

declaimed  against  his  friendly  patrons  for  finding  no  better  post  for  him 
than  '  a  Gaugership.' "  —  W.  S.  DOUGLAS. 
12  is.    Si  vis  me  flere. 

Si  vis  me  flere,  dolendum  est 
primum  ipsi  tibi. 

—  HORACE:  De  Arte  Poetica  Liber,  11.  102,  103. 

"  If  you  would  have  me  weep,  you  yourself  must  first  know  sorrow." 

15  21.  Mrs.  Dunlop.  During  a  period  of  depression  Mrs.  Dunlop, 
a  wealthy  woman  of  high  rank,  happened  to  read  The  Cotter's  Saturday 
Night.  The  faithful,  simple  description  charmed  her  back  to  her  nor- 
mal condition.  Her  interest  in  this  poem  was  the  beginning  of  a  cor- 
respondence that  lasted  as  long  as  Burns  lived.  Of  all  his  friendships, 
says  Gilbert  Burns,  "  none  seemed  more  agreeable  to  him  than  that  of 
Mrs.  Dunlop."  Naturally  enough,  letters  written  to  such  a  friend 
furnish  very  interesting  material  for  the  poet's  biography. 

17  17.  a  vates.  The  function  of  "legislators,  prophets,  philoso- 
phers, poets  ...  is  always  the  same,  to  call  back  to  nature  and  truth 
the  spoiled  children  of  convention  and  affectation.  Of  these  messen- 
gers, the  most  wide  in  his  range,  and  most  generally  accepted,  is  the 
poet ;  for,  while  the  legislator  is  often  cramped  by  the  hardness  of  the 
materials  with  which  he  has  to  deal,  and  the  prophet  too  often  has  his 
influence  confined  and  bound  by  the  very  forms  of  a  church  which  owed 
its  existence,  perhaps,  to  his  catholicity,  the  great  poet  in  his  honest 
utterances  is  hampered  by  no  forces  external  to  his  own  genius. 

"  The  works  of  such  great  poets  —  for  we  do  not  speak  here  of  mere 
dressers  of  pretty  fancies  —  are  a  real  evangel  of  Nature  to  all  people 
who  have  ears  to  hear.  Such  men  were  Homer  and  Pindar  to  the 
Greeks  ;  Horace  and  Virgil  to  the  Romans  ;  to  the  English,  Shakspere 
and  Wordsworth ;  to  Scotland,  Walter  Scott  and  Robert  Burns."  — 
BLACKIE. 

17  24.    Minerva  Press.     A  London  press,  noted  in  the  eighteenth 
century  for  turning  out  sentimental  novels. 

18  14.     Borgia.     Although  Macchiavelli  in  his  "  Principe  "  represents 
this  skillful  politician  as  a  model  ruler,  the  name  still  stands  for  cruelty 
and  treachery. 

18  17.     Mossgiel  and  Tarbolton.     See  Outline  of  the  Life  of  Burns. 
18  19.     Crockford's.     A  famous  gaming  club-house  in  London. 
20  15.     Retzsch.     A  German  etcher  and  painter,  famous  for  his  etch- 
ings illustrating  works  of  Goethe,  Schiller,  and  Shakspere. 


74  NOTES. 

22  11     Clearness   of   Sight.     Ruskin  says :  "  The   greatest  thing  a 
human  soul  ever  does  in  this  world  is  to  see  something,  and  tell  what  it 
saw  in  a  plain  way.    Hundreds  of  people  can  talk  for  one  who  can  think, 
but  thousands  can  think  for  one  who  can  see.     To  see  clearly  is  poetry, 
prophecy,  and  religion,  —  all  in  one." 

"  The  world  of  Literature  is  more  or  less  divided  into  Thinkers  and 
Seers.  ...  I  believe  .  .  .  the  Seers  are  wholly  the  greater  race  of  the 
two." 

"  A  true  Thinker,  who  has  practical  purpose  in  his  thinking,  and  is 
sincere,  as  Plato  or  Carlyle  or  Helps,  becomes  in  some  sort  a  seer,  and 
must  be  always  of  infinite  use  in  his  generation."  —  RUSKIN  on  Scott, 
Modern  Painters,  vol.  Ill,  part  iv,  "  Of  Many  Things." 

23  6.     red-wat-shod.     Wat  means  wet. 

23  23.     Keats.     Is  Carlyle's  criticism  of  Keats  appreciative  ? 

24  3.     Novum  Organum.     One  of  Bacon's  scientific  works.     Macau- 
lay  says :    "  The  Novum   Organum    and    the  De  Augmentis   are   much 
talked  of,  but  little  read.    They  have  produced,  indeed,  a  vast  effect  on 
the  opinions  of  mankind  ;  but  they  have  produced  it  through  the  opera- 
tion of  intermediate   agents.     They  have  moved  the  intellects  which 
have  moved  the  world." 

27  12.     Dr.  Slop.     Carlyle   quotes  from  Sterne's  Tristram  Shandy, 
a  book  which  Burns  "  devoured  at  meals,  spoon  in  hand." 

28  20.     Scots  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled.     Mr.  Quiller  Couch  says 
that  Bannockburn  seems  to  him  to  be  rant ;   "  very  fine  rant  —  inspired 
rant,  if  you  will  —  hovering  on  the  borders  of  poetry." 

Mr.  Wallace  says  :  "  Under  cover  of  a  fourteenth  century  battle-song 
he  [Burns]  was  really  liberating  his  soul  against  the  Tory  tyranny  that 
was  opposing  liberty  at  home  and  abroad,  and,  moreover,  striking  at  the 
comfort  of  his  own  fireside." 

29  5.     Cacus.     A  giant. 

31  l.  Tieck  .  .  .  Musaus.  Each  of  these  Germans  wrote  Ger- 
man folk  tales.  The  chief  note  of  those  of  Musaus  is  said  to  be  their 
artificial  naivete.  Yet  the  "  satirical  humour,  quaint  fancy,  and  grace- 
ful writing  "  have  made  them  a  classic  of  their  kind. 

31  16.  Tarn  o'  Shanter.  Both  Lockhart  and  Cunningham  give 
some  account  of  the  day  on  which  Burns  wrote  the  poem  which  he  con- 
sidered his  masterpiece.  Principal  Shairp  also  tells  the  story  in  his 
Robert  Burns,  p.  121. 

Scott  had  Tarn  o"1  Shanter  in  mind  when  he  said  that  "  no  poet,  with 
the  exception  of  Shakspere,  ever  possessed  the  power  of  exciting  the 
most  varied  and  discordant  emotions  with  such  rapid  transitions." 


NOTES.  75 

31  34.     '  Poosie  Nansie.'     It  was   in  her  alehouse  that  the  raude 
carlin  (fearless  crone),  the  wee  Apollo,  the  Son  of  Mars ;  and  the  others 
met  for  their  good  time. 

32  21.     Beggars'  Opera.     An  eighteenth-century  production  by  John 
Gay.     He  transforms  a  motley  company  of  highwaymen,  pickpockets, 
etc.,  into  a  group  of  fine  gentlemen  and  ladies  in  order  to  satirize  the 
corrupt  political  conditions  of  the  time. 

Beggars'  Bush.  A  seventeenth-century  work  by  John  Fletcher  and 
others. 

32  28.     his  Songs.     Emerson  said  the  reason  why  the  great  English 
race,  all  over  the  world,  honored  the  poet  as  it  did  on  the  hundredth 
anniversary  of  his  birth  was  because  "  Robert   Burns,  the  poet  of  the 
middle  class,  represents  in  the  mind  of  men  to-day  that  great  uprising 
of  the  middle  class  against  the  armed  and  privileged  minorities,  that 
uprising  which  worked  politically  in  the  American  and  French  Revolu- 
tions, and  which,  not  in  governments  so  much   as  in  education  and 
social  order,  has  changed  the  face  of  the  world.  .  .  .    The  Confession 
of  Augsburg,  the  Declaration  of  Independence,  the  French  Rights  of 
Man,  and  the  '  Marseillaise  '  are  not  more  weighty  documents  in  the  his- 
tory of  freedom  than  the  songs  of  Burns." 

33  12.     Ossorius  (Osorio).     Bacon    comments  on    the  tendency   of 
this  man  to   sacrifice   substance  to  style.     A  philosophical  writer,  his 
chief  work  is  a  Latin  history  of  the  reign  of  Emanuel  I. 

34  27.    our  Fletcher's  aphorism.     Andrew  Fletcher,  a  famous  Scot- 
tish patriot.     For  a  short  account  of  the  man,  and  an  exact  quotation 
of  the   saying   that  has  made    him   famous,  see    Chambers'*   Encyclo- 
pedia. 

35  21.     Grays  and  Glovers.     Why  does  Carlyle  mention  Glover  in 
connection  with  Gray  ?   Stopford  Brooke  says,  "  The  '  Elegy '  will  always 
remain  one   of  the  beloved  poems  of  Englishmen.     It  is  not  only  a 
piece  of  exquisite  work  ;  it  is  steeped  in  England." 

36  3.     Boston   (Thomas).     Carlyle  mentions  the  best-known  work 
of   this    Scotch   Presbyterian  divine.     His    influence    as    a  Calvinistic 
theologian   is   said    to  have  affected  several   generations   of   Scottish 
people. 

36  29.  La  Fleche.  A  town  in  France  where  the  famous  Scottish 
philosopher  and  historian,  David  Hume,  spent  three  years.  He  de- 
scribes himself  as  wandering  about  there  "  in  solitude,  and  dreaming  the 
dream  of  his  philosophy." 

41  4.  Mossgiel.  The  town  in  which  Burns  did  most  of  his  best 
work. 


76  NOTES. 

45  11.     character  for  sobriety  .  .  .  destroyed.   Burns  was  then  living 
at  Mossgiel.     During  these  years,  his  brother  Gilbert  says,  "  his  temper- 
ance and  frugality  were  everything  that  could  be  desired."     Mr.  Scott 
Douglas  adds:  "The  effect  of  prevalent  misconception  on  this  point 
is  visible,  even  in  Mr.  Carlyle's  in  many  respects  incomparable   essay. 
The  poet  had  at  Kirkoswald  and  Irvine  learned  to  drink,  and  he  was 
all  his  life  liable  to  social  excesses,  but  it  is  unfair  to  say  that  his  '  char- 
acter for  sobriety  was  destroyed.'  " 

46  11.     a  mad  Rienzi.     A  Roman  political  reformer  of  the  fourteenth 
century.     "The  nobles  never  acknowledged  his  government  .  .  .  and 
the  populace  became  so  infuriated  by  his  arbitrary  measures   that   a 
crowd  surrounded  him  on  the  stairs  of  the  Capitol  and  killed  him." 

47  20.     Virgilium  vidi  tantum.     I  have  caught  a  glimpse  of  Virgil. 

48  23.     Mr.  Nasmyth's  picture.     See   Life  and   Works   of  Robert 
Burns  by  Dr.  Robert  Chambers,  1896  edition,  by  William  Wallace,  vol. 
II,  p.  55,  for  an  engraving  from  this  portrait. 

49  23.     in  malem  partem,  disparagingly. 

50  34.     good  Old  Blacklock.     Burns  says :  "  Dr.  Blacklock  belonged 
to  a  set  of  critics  for  whose  applause  I   had  not  dared  to  hope"     Dr. 
Thomas  Blacklock,  of  Edinburgh,  was  a  blind  poet,  of  whom  Dr.  John- 
son wrote  that  he  "looked  on   him  with   reverence."  [Letter  to  Mrs. 
Thrale,  Edinburgh,  August  17,   1773.]     Upon  hearing  Burns's  poems 
read  he  wrote  an  appreciative  letter  to  their  common  friend  Dr.  Law- 
rie,  urging  that  a  second  edition  be  printed  at  once.     Burns  says :  "  Dr. 
Blacklock's  idea  that  I  should  meet  every  encouragement  for  a  second 
edition  fired  me  so  much  that  away  I  posted  to  Edinburgh." 

51  27.     Excise  and  Farm  scheme.     Burns  felt  compelled  to  under- 
take the  excise  work  in  order  to  eke  out  the  scanty  income  his  farm 
yielded. 

52  5.     preferred  self  help.    "  Burns,  however,  asked  nothing  from 
his  Edinburgh  friends  ;   when  they  helped  him  to  a  farm  and  a  position 
in  the  Excise,  believing,  as  they  apparently  did,  that  they  were  thereby 
gratifying  his  own  wishes,  he  made  no  complaint,  but  cheerfully  pre- 
pared  himself  for   the  necessarily  uncongenial   career    which    alone 
appeared  open  to  him."  —  WILLIAM  WALLACE'S  Life. 

53  9.     Maecenas.     The  friend  and  patron  of  Horace  and  Virgil. 

54  21.     collision  with  .  .  .  Superiors.    Burns  writes :  "I  have  been 
surprised,  confounded,  and  distracted  by  Mr.  Mitchell,  the  Collector, 
telling  me  that  he  has  received  an  order  from  your  Board  [the  Scottish 
Board  of  Excise]  to  inquire  into  my  political  conduct,  and  blaming  me 
as  a  person  disaffected  to  Government."    But  it  seems  clear  that  he  was 


NOTES.  77 

not  very  severely  reprimanded  at  headquarters,  because  later  in  this 
same  year  the  official  record  is,  "  The  Poet ;  does  pretty  well." 

Cf.  "  The  Deil  's  Awa  Wi'  Th'  Exciseman,"  and  the  story  of  the  cir- 
cumstances under  which  it  was  written. 

55  8.  Dumfries  Aristocracy.  "  If  there  is  any  truth  in  the  story, 
on  which  so  much  false  sentiment  has  been  wasted,  about  Burns  walk- 
ing the  shady  side  of  the  street  while  the  Dumfries  gentry  on  the  other 
side  would  not  recognise  him,  it  proves  at  all  events  that  Burns  knew 
no  reason  why  he  should  not  show  himself  on  the  street  as  well  as  the 
proudest  among  them." —  WALLACE. 

In  January,  1794,  "about  the  time  usually  selected  for  his  final  sur- 
render to  the  drink-fiend,"  Burns  wrote :  '  Some  .  .  .  have  conceived  a 
prejudice  against  me  as  being  a  drunken,  dissipated  character.  I  might 
be  all  this,  you  know,  and  yet  be  an  honest  fellow;  but  you  know  that 
I  am  an  honest  fellow  and  am  nothing  of  this.' 

57  12.  a  volunteer.  In  1795,  while  a  large  part  of  the  regular  army 
was  fighting  against  France  abroad,  Dumfries  raised  two  companies  of 
volunteers.  Among  the  liberals,  against  whom  severe  accusations  had 
been  made,  and  who  welcomed  this  opportunity  to  show  their  loyalty, 
was  Burns.  Cunningham  says  he  well  remembers  the  swarthy,  stooping 
ploughman  handling  his  arms  with  "  indifferent  dexterity "  in  this 
respectable  and  picturesque  corps.  As  a  further  indication  of  the  poet's 
feeling  he  wrote  The  Dumfries  Volunteers,  a  ballad  that  first  appeared 
in  the  Dumfries  Journal  and  was  at  once  reprinted  in  other  newspapers 
and  magazines. 

60  7.     promotion.     To   escape   the    "incessant   drudgery"   of    the 
Supervisorship,  Burns  wanted  to  be  the  Excise  Collector.     He  thought 
this  position  would  give  him  "  a  decent  competence  "  and  "  a  life  of 
literary  leisure."     He  would  ask  for  nothing  more. 

Butler.     Cf.  p.  i. 

61  32.     Roger  Bacon.     His  Opus  Majus  ("Greater  Work")  is,  to 
borrow  the  phrase  of  Dr.  Whewell,  "  at  once  the  Encyclopedia  and  the 
Novum   Organum  of  the  thirteenth  century."     "  '  Unheard,  forgotten, 
buried,'  the  old  man  died  as  he  had  lived,  and  it  has  been  reserved  for 
later  ages  to  roll  away  the  obscurity  that  had  gathered  round  his  mem- 
ory, and  to  place  first  in  the  great  roll  of  modern  science  the  name  of 
Roger  Bacon."  —  J.  R.  GREEN,  Short  History  of  the  English  People,  p. 
141.     See  Novum  Organum,  p.  24  of  this  essay,  and  the  note. 

61  33.  Tasso  pines  in  the  cell  of  a  madhouse.  During  these  seven 
years  of  confinement  his  greatest  work  was  read  all  over  Europe.  It  is 
said  that  he  is  the  last  Italian  poet  whose  influence  made  itself  felt 


78  NOTES. 

throughout  Europe,  and  that  his  Jerusalem  is  the  "  culminating  poetical 
product "  of  the  sixteenth  century,  as  Dante's  Divine  Comedy  is  of  the 
fourteenth. 

61  34.  Camoens.  A  celebrated  Portuguese  poet  of  the  sixteenth 
century. 

64  14.     Araucana.     By  Alonso  de  Ercilla. 

65  15.     He  has  no  Religion.     Carlyle  did  a  great  deal  of  vigorous 
thinking  on  the  subject  of  religion.     "A  man's  religion,"  he  says,  "is 
the  chief  fact  with  regard  to  him.  .  .  .     The  thing  a  man  does  practi- 
cally believe  (and  this  is  often  enough  without  asserting  it  even  to  him- 
self, much  less  to  others) ;  the  thing  a  man  does  practically  lay  to  heart, 
and  know  for  certain  concerning  his  vital  relations  to  this  mysterious 
Universe,  and  his  duty  and  destiny  there,  that  is  in  all  cases  the  primary 
thing  for  him,  and  creatively  determines   all   the   rest.      That  is  his 
religion ;  or,  it  may  be,  his  mere  scepticism  and  no-religion."     Again 
Carlyle  says  of  the  man  who  has  a  religion  :  "  Hourly  and  daily,  for 
himself  and  for  the  whole  world,  a  faithful,  unspoken,  but  not  ineffec- 
tual prayer  rises  :  '  Thy  will  be  done.'     His  whole  work  on  earth  is  an 
emblematic  spoken  or  acted  prayer :  '  Be  the  will  of  God  done  on  Earth 
—  not  the  Devil's  will  or  any  of  the  Devil's  servants'  wills! '  .  .  .  He 
has  a  religion,  this  man  ;   an  everlasting  Load-star  that   beams   the 
brighter  in  the  Heavens,  the  darker  here  on  Earth  grows  the  night 
around  him." 

These  citations  may  help  us  decide  what  Carlyle  meant  by  saying 
that  Burns  had  no  religion.  We  are  glad  to  have  him  add :  "  His 
religion,  at  best,  is  an  anxious  wish ;  like  that  of  Rabelais, '  a  great  Per- 
haps.' "  Some  of  us  may  agree  with  Professor  Hugh  Walker  that  there 
is  only  a  half-truth  in  this  concession,  and  that  "  Carlyle,  in  most  respects 
so  appreciative  and  so  keen-sighted,  is  surely  in  error  when  he  says  thai 
Burns  had  no  religion."  We  can  hardly  escape  the  conclusion  that 
Burns  was  at  times  strongly  influenced  by  his  religious  hope.  There  are 
passages  in  several  of  his  poems  that  we  must  not  disregard ;  and  in  his 
letters  he  sometimes  throws  light  on  his  religious  views.  For  example, 
in  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Dunlop,  1788,  he  writes :  "  Some  things  in  your  late 
letters  hurt  me;  not  that  you  say  them,  but  that  you  mistake  me. 
Religion,  my  honored  madam,  has  not  only  been  all  my  life  my  chief 
dependence,  but  my  dearest  enjoyment.  I  have  indeed  been  the 
luckless  victim  of  wayward  follies ;  but,  alas !  I  have  ever  been  '  more 
fool  than  knave.'  A  mathematician  without  religion  is  a  probable 
character;  an  irreligious  poet  is  a  monster."  Some  two  years  earlier 
he  had  written:  "  O,  thou  great  unknown  Power!  Thou  Almighty 


NOTES.  79 

God !  who  hast  lighted  up  reason  in  my  breast,  and  blessed  me  with 
immortality !  I  have  frequently  wandered  from  that  order  and  regu- 
larity necessary  for  the  perfection  of  thy  works,  yet  thou  hast  never  left 
me  nor  forsaken  me !  " 

70  20.     Ramsgate.    A  seaport  in  Kent,  sixty-five  miles  from  London. 

70  20.  Isle  of  Dogs.  A  peninsula  on  the  bank  of  the  Thames, 
opposite  Greenwich. 

70  29.  Valclusa.  Valcluse,  near  Avignon,  was  the  quiet  country 
home  of 

"  Fraunceys  Petrark,  ..  .  .  whose  rethorike  swete 
Enlumined  al  Itaille  of  poetrye." 


CARLYLE'S    SUMMARY. 


I  OUR  grand  maxim  of  supply  and  demand.  Living  misery  and  post- 
humous glory.  The  character  of  Burns  a  theme  that  cannot  easily 
become  exhausted.  His  Biographers.  Perfection  in  Biography.  — Burns  ' 
one  of  the  most  considerable  British  men  of  the  eighteenth  century: 
an  age  the  most  prosaic  Britain  had  yet  seen.  His  hard  and  most  dis- 
advantageous conditions.  Not  merely  as  a  Poet,  but  as  a  Man,  that  he 
chiefly  interests  and  affects  us.  His  life  a  deeper  tragedy  than  any 
brawling  Napoleon's.  His  heart,  erring  and  at  length  broken,  full  of 
inborn  riches,  of  love  to  all  living  and  lifeless  things.  The  Peasant 
Poet  bears  himself  among  the  low,  with  whom  his  lot  is  cast,  like  a 
King  in  exile]— J-  His  Writings  but  a  poor  mutilated  fraction  of  what  was 
in  him,  yetof  a  quality  enduring  as  the  English  tongue.  He  wrote, 
not  from  hearsay,  but  from  sight  and  actual  experience.  This,  easy  as 
it  looks,  the  fundamental  difficulty  which  all  poets  have  to  strive  with. 
Byron,  heartily  as  he  detested  insincerity,  far  enough  from  faultless. 
No  poet  of  Burns's  susceptibility  from  first  to  last  so  totally  free  from 
affectation.  Some  of  his  Letters,  however,  by  no  means  deserve  this 
praise.  His  singular  power  of  making  all  subjects,  even  the  most 
homely,  interesting.  Wherever  there  is  a  sky  above  him,  and  a  world 
around  him,  the  poet  is  in  his  place.  Every  genius  an  impossibility 
till  he  appears.  —  Burns's  rugged  earnest  truth,  yet  tenderness  and  sweet 
native  grace.  His  clear,  graphic  *'  descriptive  touches '  and  piercing 
emphasis  of  thought.  Professor  Stewart's  testimony  to  Burns's  intel- 
lectual vigour.  A  deeper  insight  than  any  'doctrine  of  association.' 
In  the  Poetry  of  Burns  keenness  of  insight  keeps  pace  with  keenness  of 
feeling.  Loving  Indignation  and  good  Hatred:  Scots  wha  hae  ;  Mac- 
pherson's  Farewell:  Sunny  buoyant  floods  of  Humour.  —  Imperfections 
of  Burns's  poetry  :  Tarn  o1  Shanter,  not  a  true  poem  so  much  as  a  piece 
of  sparkling  rhetoric  :  The  Jolly  Beggars,  the  most  complete  and  perfect 
as  a  poetical  composition.  His  Songs  the  most  truly  inspired  and  most 
deeply  felt  of  all  his  poems.  His  influence  on  the  hearts  and  literature 
of  his  country  :  Literary  patriotism.  —  Burns's  acted  Works  even  more 
interesting  than  his  written  ones  ;  and  these  too,  alas,  but  a  fragment  ;j 


SUMMARY.  81 

passionate  youth  never  passed  into  clear  and  steadfast  manhood. 

only  true  happiness  of  a  man  :  Often  it  is  the  greatest  minds  that 
are  latest  in  obtaining  it :  Burns  and  Byron.  Burns's  hard-worked, 
yet  happy  boyhood  :  His  v  estimable  parents.  Early  dissipations.  In 
Necessity  and  Obedience  a  man  should  find  his  highest  Freedom. — 
Religious  quarrels  and  scepticisms.  Faithlessness  :  Exile  and  black- 
est desperation.  Invited  to  Edinburgh  :  A  Napoleon  among  the 
crowned  sovereigns  of  Literature.  Sir  Walter  Scott's  reminiscence  of 
an  interview  with  Burns.  Burns's  calm,  manly  bearing  amongst  the 
Edinburgh  aristocracy.  His  bitter  feeling  of  his  own  indigence.  By 
the  great  he  is  treated  in  the  customary  fashion ;  and  each  party  goes 
his  several  way.  —  What  Burns  was  next  to  do,  or  to  avoid  :  His  Excise- 
and-Farm  scheme  not  an  unreasonable  one :  No  failure  of  external 
means,  but  of  internal,  that  overtook  Burns.  Good  beginnings.  Patrons 
of  genius  and  picturesque  tourists :  Their  moral  rottenness,  by  which 
he  became  infected,  gradually  eat  out  the  heart  of  his  life.  Meteors  of 
French  Politics  rise  before  him,  but  they  are  not  his  stars.  Calumny 
is  busy  with  him.  The  little  great-folk  of  Dumfries:  Burns's  desola- 
tion. In  his  destitution  and  degradation  one  act  of  self-devotedness 
still  open  to  him :  Not  as  a  hired  soldier,  but  as  a  patriot,  would  he 
strive  for  the  glory  of  his  country.  The  crisis  of  his  life:  Death. — 
Little  effectual  help  could  perhaps  have  been  rendered  to  Burns :  Pat- 
ronage twice  cursed  :  Many  a  poet  has  been  poorer,  none  prouder.  And 
yet  much  might  have  been  done  to  have  made  his  humble  atmosphere 
more  genial.  Little  Babylons  and  Babylonians  :  Let  us  go  and  do 
otherwise.  The  market-price  of  Wisdom.  Not  in  the  power  of  any 
mere  external  circumstances  to  ruin  the  mind  of  a  man.  The  errors  of 
Burns  to  be  mourned  over,  rather  than  blamed.  The  great  want  of  his 
life  was  the  great  want  of  his  age,  a  true  faith  in  Religion  and  a  single- 
ness and  unselfishness  of  aim.  —  Poetry,  as  Burns  could  and  ought  to 
have  followed  it,  is  but  another  form  of  Wisdom,  of  Religion.  For  his 
culture  as  a  Poet,  poverty  and  much  suffering  for  a  season  were  abso- 
lutely advantageous.  To  divide  his  hours  between  poetry  and  rich  men's 
banquets  an  ill-starred  attempt.  Byron,  rich  in  worldly  means  and 
honours,  no  whit  happier  than  Burns  in  his  poverty  and  worldly  degra- 
dation :  They  had  a  message  from  on  High  to  deliver,  which  could 
leave  them  no  rest  while  it  remained  unaccomplished.  Death  and  the 
rest  of  the  grave  :  A  stern  moral,  twice  told  us  in  our  own  time.  The 
world  habitually  unjust  in  its  judgments  of  such  men.  With  men  of 
right  feeling  anywhere,  there  will  be  no  need  to  plead  for  Burns:  In 
pitying  admiration  he  lies  enshrined  in  all  our  hearts. 


REFERENCE    BOOKS. 


BURNS. 

ARNOLD,  MATTHEW.     The  Study  of  Poetry.     (Essays  in  Criticism.) 

BLACKIE,  J.  S.     Life  of  Burns.     (Great  Writers.) 

BLACKIE,  J.  S.     Scottish  Song. 

BROOKE,  STOPFORD.     Theology  in  the  English  Poets. 

BRUCE,  WALLACE.     The  Land  of  Burns. 

CARLYLE,  THOMAS.     Hero  as  Poet,  and  Hero  as  Man  of  Letters. 

CUTHBERTSON,  JOHN.     Complete  Glossary  to  the  Poetry  and  Prose  of 

Robert  Burns. 
DOUGLAS,  W.  S.     Works  of  Robert  Burns,  Paterson  edition,  6  vols. 

(with  a  Summary  of  his  Career  and  Genius). 
— Dow,  J.  G.     Selections  from  Burns.    (Introduction,  notes,  and  glossary.) 

FERGUSON,  R.     Poems. 
—-GEORGE,  A.  J.     Select  Poems  of  Burns  (arranged  chronologically,  with 

notes). 

GILES,  H.     Illustrations  of  Genius. 
GRAHAM,  P.  ANDERSON.     Nature  in  Books.     (The  Poetry  of  Toil  — 

Burns.) 

HALIBURTON,  HUGH.     Furth  in  Field.  • 
HENLEY,  W.  E.,  and  HENDERSON,  T.  F.     The  Poetry  of  Robert  Burns. 

Centenary  edition.     3  vols.,  with  notes.     Reprinted,  I  vol.,  in  "  The 

Cambridge  Edition." 

KINGSLEY,  CHARLES.     Burns  and  His  School. 
NICHOL,  JOHN.     Burns.     (Encyclopaedia  Britannica.) 
RAMSAY,  A.     Poems. 
REID,    J.    B.      Complete  Concordance  to  the    Poems  and    Songs   of 

Robert  Burns. 

ROBERTSON,  L.     Selections  from  Burns.     (Notes  and  glossary.)    "—• 
Ross,  J.  D.     Round  Burns'  Grave  :   Paeans  and  Dirges  of  Many  Bards 

(including  Longfellow,  Holmes,  Whittier,  Lowell,  and  Wordsworth). 
82 


REFERENCE   BOOKS.  83 

Ross,  J.  D.     Burnsiana. 

SETOUN,  GABRIEL.     Robert  Burns.     (Famous  Scots  Series.) 

SHAIRP,  J.  C.     Robert  Burns.     (English  Men  of  Letters.) 

SHAIRP,  J.  C.     Scottish  Song  and  Burns. 

STODDARD,  R.  H.     Literary  Landmarks  of  Edinburgh. 

WALKER,  H.     Three  Centuries  of  Scottish  Songs,  -e — 

WALLACE,  WILLIAM.  The  Life  and  Works  of  Robert  Burns,  edited 
by  Robert  Chambers,  revised  by  William  Wallace.  4  vols.  (with 
full  biography  and  essay  on  Character  and  Genius  of  Burns).  For 
a  review  of  this  recent  work  and  of  the  Centenary  edition  see  an 
article  in  the  Scottish  Review,  April,  1897,  by  James  Davidson, 
entitled  "  New  Light  on  Burns."  ' 


CARLYLE. 

Helpful  short  accounts  are  John  Nichol's  Thomas  Carlyle  (English 
Men  of  Letters),  Richard  Garnett's  Life  of  Thomas  Carlyle  (Great 
Writers),  H.  C.  Macpherson's  Thomas  Carlyle  (Famous  Scots  Series), 
and  A.  H.  Guernsey's  Thomas  Carlyle  (Appleton's  Handy  Volume 
Series).  Those  interested  in  the  subject  will  enjoy  FliigePs  little  book 
on  Thomas  Carlyle^s  Moral  and  Religious  Development,  translated  from 
the  German  by  J.  G.  Tyler.  Mr.  J.  A.  Froude  has  been  considered 
Carlyle's  biographer,  but  Professor  Norton  says :  "  To  exhibit  com- 
pletely the  extent  and  quality  of  the  divergence  of  Mr.  Froude's  narra- 
tive from  the  truth,  the  whole  story  would  have  to  be  rewritten."  This 
work  Mr.  David  Wilson  is  now  doing.  Meanwhile  he  has  published 
his  Mr.  Froude  and  Carlyle,  for,  he  says,  "  there  are  delusions  current 
which  must  be  demolished  before  any  truthful  biographer  can  hope  for 
a  hearing."  For  Froude's  Carlyle  we  shall  soon  be  able  to  substitute 
Carlyle's  Carlyle. 

CHRONOLOGICAL  LIST  OF  CARLYLE'S  WORKS. 

Translations,  and  Life  of  Schiller 1824-1827 

French  Revolution .         .     1837 

Sartor  Resartus 1838 

Critical  and  Miscellaneous  Essays         .»..».     1839 

Chartism 1840 

Heroes,  Hero- Worship,  and  the  Heroic  in  History       .         .         .1841 


84  REFERENCE   BOOKS. 

Past  and  Present 1843 

Life  and  Letters  of  Oliver  Cromwell 1845 

Latter-Day  Pamphlets 1850 

Life  of  John  Sterling 1851 

Occasional  Discourse  on  the  Nigger  Question      ....  1853 

History  of  Friedrich  II.        .......        1858-65 

Inaugural  Address  at  Edinburgh          ..-,„.  1866 

Shooting  Niagara  :  and  after  ?      .......  1867 

Mr.  Carlyle  on  the  War        ...                  ....  1871 

The  Early  Kings  of  Norway :  also  an  Essay  on  the  Portraits  of 

John  Knox 1875 

Reminiscences  by  Thomas  Carlyle,  ed.  by  Froude  .  .  .1881 

Reminiscences  of  my  Irish  Journey  in  1849 1882 

Last  Words  of  Thomas  Carlyle.  On  Trades  Unions,  etc.  .  .  1882 

Correspondence  of  Thomas  Carlyle  and  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  1883 

Early  Letters  of  Thomas  Carlyle 1886 

Correspondence  between  Goethe  and  Carlyle  ....  1887 

Reminiscences  by  Thomas  Carlyle,  ed.  by  C.  E.  Norton  .  .  1887 

Letters  of  Thomas  Carlyle 1889 

History  of  Literature 1892 

Last  Words  of  Thomas  Carlyle.  Wotton  Reinfred  :  Excursion 

to  Paris :  Letters 1892 


ANNOUNCEMENTS 


STANDARD    ENGLISH   CLASSICS 


Addison  and  Steele  :  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  Papers.   From  "  The 

Spectator"  (Litchfield) $0.30 

Arnold  :  Sohrab  and  Rustum  (Trent  and  Brewster) 25 

Blackmore :  Lorna  Doone  (Trent  and  Brewster) 65 

Browning,  Elizabeth  Barrett :  Selections  (Lee) .30 

Browning,  Robert:  Selections  (Lovett) 30 

Bunyan:  Pilgrim's  Progress  (Montgomery) 25 

Bunyan:  Grace  Abounding  (Baldwin) •    .     .       .35 

Burke:  Letter  to  a  Noble  Lord  (Smyth) 30 

Burke:  Speech  on  American  Taxation  (Moffatt) 25 

Burke:  Speech  on  Conciliation  with  America  (Lament)      ...       .30 
Burns :  Representative  Poems,  with  Carlyle's  Essay  on  Burns 

(Hanson) 30 

Byron:  Selections  (Tucker)  (Revised) .30 

Carlyle :  Essay  on  Burns  (Hanson) 25 

Coleridge:  Ancient  Mariner  (Gibbs) .     .       .20 

Cooper:  Last  of  the  Mohicans  (Dunbar) 50 

De  Quincey  :  English  Mail-Coach  and  Joan  of  Arc  (Turk)       .     .       .25 

De  Quincey :  Revolt  of  the  Tartars  (Simonds) 25 

Dickens:  David  Copperfield  (Buck) 70 

Dickens:  Tale  of  Two  Cities  (Linn) 50 

Dryden :  Palamon  and  Arcite  (Eliot) .25 

Eliot,  George  :  Silas  Marner  (Witham) 30 

Franklin  :  Autobiography  (Montgomery  and  Trent) 40 

Gaskell:  Cranford  (Simonds) 30 

Goldsmith  :  Deserted  Village  (Pound) 20 

Goldsmith:  Deserted  Village  with  Gray's  Elegy  (Pound)    ...       .30 

Goldsmith :  Vicar  of  Wakefield  (Montgomery) 30 

Huxley  :  Selections  (Gushing) 25 

Irving :  Oliver  Goldsmith  :  A  Biography  (Gaston) 40 

Irving:  Sketch  Book  (Complete)  (Litchfield) 50 

Lamb  :  Essays  of  Elia  (Wauchope) 40 

Lamb  :  Selected  Essays  of  (Wauchope) 50 

Lincoln  :  Selections  (Tarbell) 30 

Lodge:  Rosalynde  (Baldwin) 35 

Macaulay:  England  in  1685  (Bates) 3° 

Macaulay  :  Essay  on  Addison  (Smith) 25 

Macaulay:  Essay  on  Milton  (Smith) 20 

Macaulay:    Essays    on    Addison   and    Milton    (in    one    volume) 

(Smith) 30 

GINN  AND   COMPANY  PUBLISHERS  3° 


STANDARD   ENGLISH   CLASSICS 


Macaulay:  Essays  on  Lord  Clive  and  Warren  Hastings  (Gaston)  $0.35 

Macaulay  :  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome  (Daniell) 30 

Macaulay :  Life  of  Samuel  Johnson,  with  a  Selection  from  his 

"  Essay  on  Johnson  "  (Hanson) 25 

Milton:  L'Allegro,  II  Penseroso,  Comus,  and  Lycidas  (Hunt- 

ington) 25 

Milton  :  Paradise  Lost,  Books  I  and  II,  and  Lycidas  (Sprague)  .  .30 

Old  Testament :  Selections  (Snyder) 30 

Palgrave  :  Golden  Treasury.  First  Series  (Trent  and  Erskine)  .  .50 

Parkman  :  Oregon  Trail  (Leonard) 45 

Poe :  Select  Poems  and  Tales  (Gambrill) 30 

Pope  :  Rape  of  the  Lock  and  Other  Poems  (Parrott) 30 

Pope :  Translation  of  the  Iliad,  Books  I,  VI,  XXII,  and  XXIV 

(Tappan) 25 

Ruskin :  Selected  Essays  and  Letters  (Hufford) 60 

Ruskin :  Sesame  and  Lilies  (Hufford) 25 

Scott:  Ivanhoe  (Lewis) 50 

Scott:  Lady  of  the  Lake  (Ginn) 35 

Scott:  Quentin  Durward  (Bruere) 50 

Shakespeare:  As  You  Like  It  (Hudson) 30 

Shakespeare  :  Hamlet  (Hudson) 30 

Shakespeare  :  Henry  V  (Hudson) 30 

Shakespeare :  Julius  Cassar  (Hudson) 30 

Shakespeare:  Macbeth  (Hudson) 30 

Shakespeare  :  Merchant  of  Venice  (Hudson) 30 

Shakespeare  :  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  (Hudson) 30 

Shakespeare:  Twelfth  Night  (Hudson) 30 

Spenser:  Faerie  Queene.  Selections  (Litchfield) 40 

Stevenson  :  Inland  Voyage  and  Travels  with  a  Donkey  (Snow)  .  .35 

Stevenson:  Treasure  Island  (Hersey) 45 

Tennyson :  Gareth  and  Lynette,  Lancelot  and  Elaine,  and  The 

Passing  of  Arthur  (Boughton) 25 

Tennyson  :  The  Princess  (Cook) 30 

Thackeray:  English  Humorists  (Young) 35 

Thackeray  :  History  of  Henry  Esmond,  Esq.  (Moore) 60 

Washington's  Farewell  Address  and  Webster's  First  Bunker  Hill 

Oration  (Gaston) 25 

30^ 

GTNN  AND   COMPANY  PUBLISHERS 


AN  INTRODUCTION  TO  THE 
ENGLISH  CLASSICS 

By  WILLIAM  P.  TRENT,  Professor  of  English  in  Columbia  University, 

CHARLES  L.  HANSON,  Mechanic  Arts  High  School,  Boston,  and 
WILLIAM  T.  BREWSTER,  Professor  of  English  in  Columbia  University 


izmo,   cloth,    298   pages,   $1.2,5 


THE  purpose  of  this  book  is  to  stimulate,  in  teachers  and 
students  alike,  interest  in  the  English  Classics  selected  for 
use  in  the  schools.  At  the  same  time  it  suggests  methods  by 
which  these  masterpieces  may  be  profitably  studied.  The  analy- 
ses of  most  of  the  classics  included  and  the  accompanying  ques- 
tions have  been  tested  by  the  different  authors  in  their  own 
classrooms. 

Part  One  gives  a  brief  discussion  of  the  value  of  literature 
in  general  and  of  the  particular  place  in  English  literature  of 
certain  works  ordinarily  used  for  college-entrance  examinations. 
Its  keynote  is  encouragement  to  the  teacher. 

Part  Two  offers  a  detailed  study  of  the  so-called  English 
Classics,  arranging  them  in  groups  corresponding  in  the  main 
with  those  in  the  announcements  of  the  College-Entrance 
Examination  Board.  Each  classic  is  provided  with  sugges- 
tions for  study  of  the  introductory  material,  —  setting,  form  of 
composition  (narrative  or  argument),  etc.,  characters,  construc- 
tion and  style.  Suggestive  questions  leading  to  a  consideration 
of  further  details  offer  topics  for  open  discussion  or  theme 
work.  These,  however,  may  be  omitted  or  supplemented  at 
the  will  of  the  teacher. 

7* 

GINN  AND  COMPANY  PUBLISHERS 


ENGLISH   COMPOSITION 

By  CHARLES  LANE  -HANSON 
Department  of  English,  Mechanic  Arts  High  School,  Boston 

ENGLISH   COMPOSITION   (One-Year  Course),     iimo,   cloth,   241  pages, 

80  cents. 
TWO  YEARS'  COURSE  IN  ENGLISH  COMPOSITION.     i2mo,  cloth, 

377  Pa§es>    9°  cents. 


"SIMPLE,  PRACTICAL,  PROGRESSIVE" 
"WELL  ARRANGED  AND   PLAINLY  WRITTEN" 
"LIVELY,  INTERESTING,  AND  VERY  HELPFUL" 
"HEAD  AND  SHOULDERS  ABOVE  THE   LOT" 

HANSON'S  books  in  English  composition  are  fresh,  interesting, 
stimulating.  They  are  simple  enough  to  be  grasped  by  young 
pupils,  brief  enough  not  to  be  confusing  or  discouraging,  and  they 
make  a  genuine  appeal  to  pupils,  reaching  them  through  their  im- 
mediate, everyday  pursuits  and  pleasures. 

They  supply  a  larger  number  and  variety  of  subjects  for  oral  and 
written  composition  —  all  thoroughly  tested  by  classroom  use  —  and  a 
larger  number  of  exercises  than  any  other  composition  manual  of  the 
same  size,  thus  furnishing  the  teacher  opportunity  to  give  the  precise 
drill  needed.  The  "  Two  Years'  Course  in  English  Composition  "  is 
an  expansion  of  the  author's  earlier  volume,  "  English  Composition," 
giving  a  fuller  treatment  of  certain  subjects  and  a  greater  abundance 
of  exercises  and  composition  work,  so  that  the  supply  of  material  is 
ample  for  the  first  and  second  years  of  any  high  school. 

The  books  encourage  the  pupil  to  make  the  best  use  of  the  equip- 
ment he  brings  from  the  lower  schools  and  point  out  the  practical 
value  of  the  essentials  of  grammar.  They  offer  helpful  suggestions 
for  the  revision  of  written  work  and  present  the  main  principles 
in  a  clear,  practical  form  that  the  pupil  will  easily  grasp  and  readily 
apply  in  all  his  daily  work. 

2634 

GINN  AND  COMPANY  PUBLISHERS 


YB   13^77 


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